The Chains We Forge in Life
by Ryl
Summary: In which Hermione and a few Slytherins would rather take a pass on the past, thank you very much.
1. Prologue

**The Chains We Forge in Life**

**Prologue**

He shifted uncomfortably, tugging at the cloak that shrouded him. Grey, he thought, was not an acceptable colour. It had no style, no _panache_. Completely unbefitting for a wizard such as himself. He'd always prided himself on dressing with a certain sense of style, and he couldn't help feeling the Afterlife was doing less than it might to accommodate him.

The rustle of dry voices caught his attention, and his ears pricked with interest. He hadn't forgotten much from when he'd been alive, and the ability to determine when people were plotting was certainly not one of them. Of course, he'd usually _been_ one of the people plotting, but things had changed, hadn't they?

And not necessarily for the better.

In fact, he thought, chafing as he yet again adjusted the heavy robes and oddly-weighted belt, if he were alive, no doubt he would not have been summoned so rudely to a meeting and then stood up. It was unconscionably unacceptable and when the persons who had called the meeting deigned to arrive, he would tell them so, or his name wasn't—

"Rise."

The command was given in such a quiet, detached fashion that he had hardly recognized that it was directed at him before he was on his feet, forced to stand at attention for whoever had summoned him.

"You are aware that the council has not been able to reach a verdict on the status of your Afterlife."

Yes. Yes, he most certainly was. He'd watched others enter this foggy, grey existence, and then be whisked away to locations unknown. He sometimes thought he could hear a strain of exquisite music or pained groans, but perhaps it was his imagination. Reality in the Afterlife was more confusing than one might expect. Still, he'd been left to his own devices, stuck while others apparently debated his future.

"Yes," he bit out, sensing that an answer was required. He hadn't been aware that the council was deadlocked, but he supposed that it made sense. It was inevitable, really, when there wasn't one strong leader to take the burden of the responsibility of decision-making.

"We are, however, agreed that you will have the opportunity to witness the forging of your chains."

It wouldn't do to gape, he told himself, keeping his mouth firmly closed. Chains? Whatever did—oh. As if in answer to his thought, the heavy belt at his waist transformed, becoming link after link of cumbersome chain, its length so great as to pool on the ground beneath him.

"We believe that there is yet hope for you," the voice continued. "By witnessing certain events you will have the opportunity not to change them, but perhaps be changed _by_ them."

Before the voice had finished speaking, the grey mist that had been his constant companion since he'd entered the Afterlife swirled and then dissipated, revealing a location with which he was more than familiar.

"Hogwarts," he murmured, and strode forward, chains clanking behind him.

Author's Notes

Thanks, as always, to The Above and Beyond Team of Miss M and Miss B.

Characters from the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling. They are used without permission and not for profit.


	2. Chapter One

**The Chains We Forge in Life**

**Chapter One**

_"You are fettered," said Scrooge, trembling. "Tell me why?"_

_"__I wear the chain I forged in life__," replied the Ghost. "I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?"_

_Scrooge trembled more and more._

_"Or would you know," pursued the Ghost, "the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was full as heavy and as long as this, seven Christmas Eves ago. You have laboured on it since. It is a ponderous chain!"_

The punch, Hermione Granger decided, was the best part of the evening. Or, rather, the _only_ good part. Make that the only _tolerable_ part of the evening. She scowled into the dark liquid, wondering if she should say anything about George spiking the punch.

Not her responsibility, she reminded herself.

Plus, the punch was _good_.

"Miss Granger!"

The familiar voice of Minerva McGonagall interrupted her train of thought, and she smiled up at her former Head of House.

"The Great Hall looks beautiful," Hermione offered. It was true. Whoever had transfigured the room, and she was almost certain that Headmistress McGonagall would have kept that honour for herself, had done a marvelous job. The Great Hall had been transformed to a snow palace with a thin layer of ice covering each table and chair. Icicles of varying lengths and thicknesses hung from the ceiling and every other available surface. Best of all, however, was the fact that the ice seemed to be lit from within. A cool, blue glow bathed the room in a translucent shimmer.

"I _am_ rather proud of it," Minerva admitted, her voice low and a trifle more conspiratorial than Hermione might have expected. "Though I admit that perhaps a stronger warming charm might not have been amiss. The ice does seem to have lowered the temperature of the room considerably."

"I'm sure that once the dancing starts, everyone will be grateful for the cooler temperatures," Hermione assured her, although she was now tempted to rub her arms to alleviate the goose bumps she could feel forming. At least her gown had long sleeves. Ginny had tried to talk her into a clingy strapless dress, but she'd fallen in love with the cranberry red, full-skirted, floor length gown. And perhaps the square neck line and bell sleeves made her look like more a medieval princess than a young, available witch, but... Well. Perhaps another cup of punch wouldn't be such a poor idea, she thought. When Headmistress McGonagall's attention was diverted by the arrival of several dignitaries from the Ministry, she drifted toward the refreshment table.

With a look of wry amusement, Hermione realized that the punch bowl had been seriously depleted since she'd had her first cup only twenty minutes earlier. As she reached for the ladle, she felt someone step close beside her.

"Allow me," he said, taking the ladle from her and deftly filling a cup. "It would be a shame for you to splash such a lovely gown."

"Mr Malfoy!" she exclaimed, staring wide-eyed at his chiseled profile.

He handed her the cup, even going so far as to incline his head in a slight bow.

"Thank you," she said, her surprise turning to suspicion. Since when was Lucius Malfoy in the habit of politely serving Muggleborns?

"My pleasure," he replied, and filled his own cup before bowing a second time and turning away from her. She stared after him for a moment as he walked away, and then shook her head to clear it. She had no intention of wasting even a moment of thought on the reformed Death Eater.

"What's he up to, I wonder?" a quiet voice beside her questioned.

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, throwing her arms around her best friend and nearly sending the contents of her punch cup flying.

"Whoa!" he laughed, holding her carefully as he gave her a light kiss on the cheek. "One would think that you missed me."

Stepping back, she swatted at his arm. "Of course I missed you! You've been gone nearly four months, you know."

"Yes, I'm aware," he teased. "But I'm back now, and I have no intention to go travelling again anytime soon."

Hermione bit her lip, wondering if Harry's impromptu trip around the world had been the good experience for him that she'd intended.

"It was fine," he said softly, taking her elbow and leading her to one of the small, ice covered tables. "I particularly enjoyed South America. Lots of snakes to talk to."

Her eyes widened, not at Harry's story, but at the figure at the back of the room. Surely no one would have the temerity to dress up as— He was dead!

"Kidding!" he assured her, apparently mistaking her shock for concern at his story. "Well, mostly. I did encounter a particularly friendly boa con—" He stopped as Hermione jabbed at his ribs.

"Did you see that?" she asked, squinting into the crowd.

"See what? I was trying to amuse you with mostly true stories from my trip, and trying even harder not to catch anybody's eye. Bloody fame-mongering voyeurs," he muttered. "What did you..."

"Nothing," she said, blinking and turning back to him. "I mean, I couldn't have. He's dead."

"Hermione?" Harry asked, and she felt a stab of guilt for the obvious concern she was causing him.

"It was nothing," she assured him. "A trick of the light. Or maybe the punch was spiked with something rather more creative than usual."

"Spiked?" Both Harry's attitude and eyebrows soared. Before she could stop him, he snagged her cup and took a healthy swallow. "That's good stuff, that is," he said in approval. "I think I may get my own."

"How generous," she said wryly, looking at her almost empty cup. Before she could ask him to bring her more of the liquid comfort, he had been swept up in the rapidly growing, always Potter-obsessed crowd.

"Not much of a gentleman, that," a familiar voice said, and she turned to find Draco Malfoy settling himself in Harry's deserted chair.

Hermione shrugged and gratefully accepted the punch he offered her. "Maybe not in the little things," she agreed. "But he does just fine when it really matters."

"Still defending him," Draco said, his blond hair falling perfectly into place even as he shook his head. "I thought I'd cured you of that."

She hid a smile behind her cup. "Not hardly. I'm afraid working with you for the past year has not yet completely corrupted me."

"Well, partial corruption is an adequate start, I suppose. Seriously, though." Draco sat back in his chair. "He's doing well?"

"I think so," she replied cautiously. While Harry Potter was wont to wear his emotions on his sleeve, he did still have the annoying habit of keeping his feelings to himself if he thought that they would upset her. "He was about to tell me a ridiculous story about conversing with a boa constrictor, I believe."

"Ah. The Gryffindor penchant for wildly exaggerated tales rears its ugly head." He nodded knowingly.

"Shall I remind you of the time you attempted to convince me that you stabilized the Room of Requirement without any help? While fighting off Peeves?"

"Oh. That. Well, I had to level the playing field somehow, didn't I? You _did_ restore the entire Ravenclaw tower on your own, you know."

"You were competing with me?" Hermione asked. "Whatever for? The only reason I was able to restore the tower was that the lady in the portrait was still intact, and was so happy to have someone answer a riddle correctly that she invoked some sort of charm that aided my efforts." She frowned. "I still haven't been able to figure out how a portrait cast a spell. I think that we don't know even half of what goes on in this place."

Draco snorted and took a long pull from his drink. "Half is generous. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that we really don't understand magic at all." He looked away from her and ran his finger along the rim of his glass as he studied their surroundings. "The Great Hall looks good," he finally admitted.

"Minerva outdid herself," Hermione agreed. "Though it _is_ rather chilly." She scraped a line in the icy surface of the table.

"For an intelligent witch," a familiar voice intoned, "you are exhibiting remarkably dunderheaded tendencies." Severus Snape cast a muttered warming charm and joined them.

"I hadn't forgotten," Hermione grumbled. "I just felt silly casting another when the first hadn't even worn off."

"Lowered body temperature?" Severus questioned. "You've been working too hard again."

"The castle doesn't repair itself, you know," she said with a shrug. "And with the banquet tonight, and the fact that the school will be re-opening next month..."

"More punch?" Severus murmured, handing her a fresh cup. "I think you'll find it as effective as another warming charm," he said slyly.

"Yes, and you only had to nick one of my oldest bottles of Ogden's to accomplish it." Lucius Malfoy filled the remaining seat at the table.

Hermione gritted her teeth. She was comfortable with Draco. While they weren't exactly friends, they had been working together to repair Hogwarts for the last year, and had managed to set aside their differences. Snape had spent several months recovering from Nagini's attack, but had made it a point to assist them with his vast knowledge of the castle as soon as he was able. She'd come to appreciate his acerbic wit, now that it was no longer quite so biting, and she'd always respected his intelligence. She'd become more or less comfortable in his presence. Lucius Malfoy, however, had seemed to drop right back into his life of political and financial intrigue after the death of the Dark Lord, somehow escaping the clutches of Ministry. She wasn't quite sure how he had managed it, and she was quite sure that she didn't trust him.

"Wait," she said, finally registering what the elder Malfoy had said. "_You_ spiked the punch, Severus?"

"Oh, nicely done," Severus chided, glaring at Lucius. "Any other secrets you'd care to divulge?"

"Hush," Lucius said, tapping his cane imperiously. "The triumph is even sweeter when recognized by others."

"Touché." Severus raised his glass and drank deeply. "And let's not forget that you gave me both the idea and the Ogden's."

Lucius waved aside what Hermione supposed was Severus' Slytherin attempt at thanking him. "After all those years of listening to you complain about being required to supervise balls in this room, I thought you should have the chance to be utterly irresponsible for one night."

"Speaking of irresponsible…"

Hermione followed Draco's gaze to the cleared floor where couples were dancing. "Oh, Merlin," she muttered. Ron and Lavender were pressed up against each other so closely that she feared for the state of Lavender's ridiculously ruffled dress. Surely it would be crinkled beyond repair by the time Ron released her. Lavender, however, most likely couldn't care less since she and Ron appeared to be inspecting each other's tonsils.

Severus' satisfied smirk was enough to draw her attention away from the canoodling couple. "What are _you_ so happy about?" she questioned. "Aren't you supposed to make some sort of deprecating remark and storm away in a huff? Blast a few rose bushes?"

"Why would I?" he countered. "I'm rather looking forward to seeing someone other than myself have to deal with amorous young people." He raised his glass in a salute to the oblivious couple.

Draco pulled a face and shifted his chair away so that Ron and Lavender weren't in his direct line of sight. "Revolting," he muttered.

"I think it's sweet!" Hermione protested, but belied her comment by frowning when Ron's hand dipped low enough to palm Lavender's arse.

"Charming," Lucius agreed drily. "Tell me, does the young Mr Weasley intend to return to Hogwarts and sit his N.E.W.T.s?"

Hermione gladly transferred her focus from the groping couple to the elder Malfoy. "I think not," she said, grimacing. "He's been training with the Cannons for the last few months and I think he expects a contract to be offered him soon."

"And Mr Potter?" he inquired. "Now that he has returned from his tour abroad, does he plan to join you at school?"

Hermione's expression softened as she sought to catch a glimpse of her friend. She finally spotted him in a darkened corner of the room conversing with Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister of Magic. "He hasn't said," she admitted slowly, "but I rather think not." No, from the serious expressions of both Harry and Kingsley, she rather imagined that Harry's future was being determined, and that it would not involve keeping her company at the newly restored school. Her chest tightened momentarily and she wondered if she was making a mistake in returning to school to finish her final year and sit her N.E.W.T.s. Everyone else, it seemed, was moving on with their lives.

"More room for us," Draco said, nudging her foot under the table and grinning at her. "Perhaps we'll have rooms to ourselves," he speculated, looking quite cheerful at the prospect.

Well. There was that. After months of living in a tent with two boys, and then over a year of living in makeshift accommodations in whatever livable space she could find in the seriously damaged school, she had to admit that a room to herself was very tempting. The privacy to read as late as she wished without worrying that she was annoying anyone else was definitely a drawing card.

Never mind the fact that she couldn't think of a single person with whom she actually wanted to share a room. Ginny Weasley would be acceptable, she thought somewhat belatedly and guiltily. _If_ she had to share. Her train of thought was interrupted by Draco nudging her with his leg.

"Incoming," he warned.

Hermione jerked her attention in the direction Draco was pointedly _not_ looking and bit back a curse that would have had Ron gaping like a fish if he ever heard it. Cormac McLaggen was approaching, his self-important swagger confirming her suspicion that he was once again going to try his luck with her. Even though she'd rejected him every other time. And hexed him, for good measure. She scanned the room frantically, desperate to escape the inevitable invitation to dance. Not that she didn't like dancing. She just wasn't so keen on the truly awful pick-up lines he insisted on employing, and, even worse, his wandering hands. She really hadn't wanted to embarrass Minerva by hexing anyone at this inaugural event…

She blew out a huff of relief when she saw Harry cut short his conversation with the Minister and stride toward her. He wouldn't arrive quite in time to save her from McLaggen's attentions, but surely McLaggen would be forced to step aside gracefully if Harry asked her to dance.

Her hopes were crushed when a headful of long, red hair inserted itself between her and her erstwhile saviour. Harry was capable of putting off almost anyone, but Ginny Weasley had proven to be the exception to the rule. Harry wouldn't be coming to her rescue anytime soon, not if Ginny had anything to say about it. Mentally crossing the youngest Weasley's name off the short list of potential roommates, Hermione clenched her teeth and wondered just what level of hexing she could get away with without attracting too much attention. And tried to decide who she would hex first, McLaggen or Ginny.

And Draco was laughing at her!

Oh, not in such a way that it would be obvious to anyone else, but _she_ knew perfectly well that the miniscule upward twitch of the left side of his upper lip was a hearty guffaw when translated from Slytherin to Gryffindor. Prat!

Worse, her momentary hesitation at seeing Harry heading in her direction had robbed her of the opportunity to make a strategic retreat to the ladies' room.

She would hex Ginny first. Perhaps something that would give the perpetually perfectly coifed sleek hair an overabundance of curl and frizz. Or maybe a lip-locking charm that would prevent her from speaking unnecessarily. Oh! Or a hex that would make others see through her glamour charms without her knowledge! That last one had definite possibilities, she thought, momentarily distracted from her imminent problem.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Severus muttered. "Draco. Were you raised in a stable?"

When Draco's only response was an arched brow, Severus rose smoothly to his feet and extended his hand to Hermione. "Would you care to dance, Miss Granger?"

Hermione boggled for only a moment. A rescue was a rescue, after all, and she felt fairly certain that if she were to dance with her former Potions professor, she would most certainly not be required to fight off unwelcome advances. Of course, she would probably have to deal with acerbic comments and scathing commentary, but, well, those were actually appealing. As long as he didn't insult _her_, of course.

Smiling brightly, she allowed him to lead her onto the floor and join the throng of dancing couples. And if there was the slightest of smirks on Severus' face as he looked over her shoulder at the disgruntled McLaggen, she chose not to comment on it.

He was a surprisingly smooth dancer, she learned in short order. It stood to reason, of course. He'd always carried himself with a certain… awareness. Whether it was sweeping into a classroom to deliver his traditional speech to first years or slicing and dicing potions ingredients accurately to a sixty-fourth of an inch, he seemed to move instinctually.

A most pleasant change from dancing with either McLaggen _or_ her friends, she thought wryly.

"I had thought Draco more of a gentleman," Severus observed eventually, still moving effortlessly around the dance floor.

"Then you don't know him very well," Hermione retorted tartly, though she tempered the statement with a quick grin. "I'm afraid Draco's enjoyment of seeing me in uncomfortable situations trumps his gentlemanly instincts. And watching me fending off Handsy McHands is apparently quite high on his list of pleasurable pursuits."

"I suppose I can see the allure," Severus allowed after attempting and failing not to smirk at the nickname Hermione had coined. "Handsy McHands?" he finally questioned. "Really, Miss Granger? That was the best you could come up with?"

"I thought it incorporated the Scottish lilt quite nicely!" she protested.

"Hmm…" Severus allowed. "Perhaps. Or we could call him Wretched Robbie, whose love is like a red, red, rash."

"Oh. You heard about that," she said, blushing.

"I heard he deserved that hex, and worse," Severus said. "Much worse. The man-handling of women is not a trait practiced in Slytherin House, I assure you," he finished grimly. "Which is why I do not understand Draco's—" He broke off abruptly, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere above Hermione's left ear.

"What is it?" she asked, unnerved at the sight of her normally unflappable former teacher distinctly distracted. "The charms repairing the Great Hall haven't failed, have they?" she questioned anxiously. It had been a tricky room to restore, but she was quite certain they had done it correctly. She had worked tirelessly with Minerva to get every nuance just right, and she was sure they'd succeeded, but had they somehow compromised the structural integrity of the room?

"Severus," she hissed as sharply as she dared. "What is it?"

One look, however, at his ashen face had her tugging him from the dance floor and back to their table. His expression was not that of a man who feared for the safety of others, but rather that of a man who had received a nasty shock. The fact that he allowed her to lead him anywhere only sharpened the stab of worry.

"Gracious, Severus," Lucius said, standing as they neared the table. "You look as if you've seen a ghost," he said mildly in what Hermione recognized as a subtle Slytherin attempt to put them at ease. Severus, however, blanched and reached for his cup of doctored punch even as he sat down. Instead of answering Lucius, he kept his eyes trained on the crowd of people, as if he were looking for one person in particular. Finally, he shook his head and returned his focus to the other people at the table.

"I rather think this entire evening is an airing of ghosts," he said drily, and Hermione couldn't help but shiver. She and Minerva had made certain to restore the Great Hall to its previous appearance, not wanting the war to leave its mark on the most social room of the castle. The Ministry, however, had insisted on large plaques honouring the fallen to be placed in the entry and house-specific ones at the entrance to each common room. She still wasn't sure how she felt about that—the reminder seemed too morbid to encounter daily, and she strongly suspected that after a week or two, most students wouldn't even really see the plaques any more. And those who were inclined to remember the fallen certainly didn't need a plaque to accomplish it.

"If you'll excuse me," she said abruptly, and, feeling her throat close up, she pushed her chair away from the table with an audible scrape. She had promised herself that she would keep her focus where it should be, and celebrate the fact that they were moving on from the war, but it was harder than she had anticipated. For even as they moved on, she couldn't stop the niggling remorse for what was being left behind.

With a tight smile, she threaded her way through the crowd until she reached the dubious privacy of the ladies' loo, where she tucked herself into a stall, sat on the closed toilet lid and attempted to control her breathing. The stinging at the back of her eyes had receded, but her throat was tight, and her breathing sounded more like panting than anything else. Five minutes and a cooling charm on her cheeks later, she ventured out of the stall to splash cold water on her face. Concentrating intensely enough to block out the list of names that she knew were on those bloody plaques, she repaired her make-up with an attention to detail that would rival Lavender Brown's. With a firm nod to her reflection in the mirror, she was ready to brave the Great Hall once again.

The firm nod quickly changed to a frown as she stared at a fuzzy reflection in the corner of the mirror. She thought she'd been alone… The room was silent, save for the occasional drip of a leaky faucet. A ghost, perhaps? She squinted, trying to get a better look at the reflection. Definitely not Moaning Myrtle, unless she'd somehow managed to go gray in the last year. Which wasn't out of the question, given the stress the ghost had undoubtedly endured during the destruction and rebuilding of the castle.

But no. Not Moaning Myrtle.

She shivered as she realized who the reflection most resembled. If she had to choose a ghost, he would have been at the very bottom of the list, she thought savagely. Smoothing down her wayward curls, she turned her back to the mirror and shoved open the heavy door without a second glance.

When she stepped into the hallway, however, she was stopped short by the sight of Lucius Malfoy lounging against the opposite wall, a drink in his hand. "I thought you could do with this," he said, offering her both the drink and his arm.

She took both, though she couldn't decide if she felt more misgiving from the acceptance of the arm or the alcohol.

"I've a bottle at the table," he informed her.

From the corner of her eye, she caught the flash of nebulous face, a swirl of ethereal cloak, and suddenly neither the arm nor the drink seemed like such a terrible idea.

Author's Notes

Thank you to Miss M and Miss B, otherwise known as The Above and Beyond Team. I don't know what I'd do without you!

Characters from the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling. They are used without permission and not for profit.


	3. Chapter Two

**The Chains We Forge In Life**

**Chapter Two**

Hermione woke with cotton in her mouth and her limbs weighted down to the point of immobility. When she tried to stir, the cotton migrated to her head, and she flopped unceremoniously back to a resting position.

Only to find that the reason she'd had a difficult time moving was not due solely to exhaustion, or even the copious amounts of alcohol-laden punch she'd found herself imbibing the previous evening. No, when she finally managed to prise open her sleep-crusted eyes, she stared in awed horror at the tangle of limbs covering her.

Hair. Blindingly blond-white. Both long and short. Mingled with hair as dark as a raven. Tangled with her own mass of corkscrew curls. A heavy arm draped across her torso was even more disturbing, and led to the discovery that at least three legs had been thrown over hers, pinning her to the mattress.

And if she didn't know better, she would say that the hand resting on her lower abdomen looked suspiciously like that of the Potion Master, Severus Snape.

Eyes wide with horror, she flung the offending arm off her and scrambled to a seated position, ignoring the stabbing pain behind her eyes at the sudden movement. Hangover or not, spending another second in bed with her former professor and two men she was quite sure could claim the name Malfoy simply wasn't going to happen.

"Not so fast, Miss Granger," a familiar voice instructed. The realization that the voice didn't belong to any of the men with whom she was currently sharing a bed led her to release the shriek she had so far successfully repressed. And she was completely justified, she told herself later. Who _wouldn't_ scream when confronted with the ghost of the late Albus Dumbledore?

Eyes wide and unblinking, she stared at the spectral gray form hovering just inside the curtains of the four-poster bed. It was unmistakably Dumbledore, and yet he appeared to have sustained changes that could not be laid entirely on the fact that he was deceased. His robes were the plainest she'd ever seen him wear. Instead of his habitual pursed lips caused by sucking on lemon drops, his face was curiously devoid of expression, even of the twinkle she had come to loathe. Most shocking of all, however, were the cruel and heavy chains clamped to his wrists and ankles and wrapped around his waist.

Roused either by Hermione's startled shriek or the clinking of Dumbledore's chains, Lucius Malfoy shifted and tucked himself firmly against Hermione's legs. "Go back to sleep," he muttered, his voice thick with sleep. "S'not morning yet." To punctuate his statement, he rubbed his lower body against her, and her eyes grew wide yet again, but for an entirely different reason.

"Mr Malfoy!" she exclaimed, scrambling to put some distance between them. "Wake up!"

After making another unsuccessful attempt to latch on to her leg, Lucius sighed and opened one eye. "Miss Granger?" he queried, frowning. "How…"

"Not important right now," she snapped. "Look!"

Lucius followed the direction of her shaking finger and spotted the spectre. "Oh, Suffering Salazar," he grumbled, responding much more calmly than Hermione thought he had any right to. "I've died and gone to—"

"Unless you plan to complete that statement with 'a rare tropical island filled with incredibly beautiful but mute and intelligent women', I beg of you to stop." Severus Snape shifted, and Hermione flushed in embarrassment as he reached out, managing to once again secure the arm she'd dislodged from her torso.

"Severus!" she hissed, hoping that the use of his given name would irritate him enough to goad him to action.

"Very well," he huffed. "I suppose you want me to drag myself out of bed to bring you a Hangover Po—" He stopped abruptly, staring at the still form of Dumbledore. "Great bloody buggering fu—"

"Yes, yes," Dumbledore interrupted. "I quite agree, if the truth be known." For the first time, Hermione caught a glimpse of the cheerful indifference for which he had been famous. In fact, she thought, the git's eyes were most likely twinkling. Not that she could tell, what with the ghostly outline obscuring his features.

"However," he continued, shifting slightly and causing the chains to rattle, "I fear we have little time to waste on the pleasantries of shocked incredulity. If you would be so good as to wake the younger Malfoy…?"

Hermione glanced at the foot of the bed, where Draco Malfoy slept soundly. His light blond hair was plastered to his face, and if she didn't know better, she would have sworn that she could see a thin trail of drool trickling down his cheek.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Lucius muttered. "He's been this way ever since he was a child. Refuses to wake until he's good and ready." He reached out as if to give his son's shoulder a shake, but Dumbledore was faster. A blast of purple light from his wand, and Draco shot bolt upright, coughing and spluttering.

"The magical equivalent of a bucket of cold water," Dumbledore explained, his face awash with benevolence.

"You could have just conjured the aroma of frying bacon," Lucius spat, making room for Draco to sit beside him.

"I'll remember that for next time," Dumbledore promised.

"There will be no next time," Lucius said stiffly. "Draco and I will be pleased to leave now." He frowned. "If we are still at Hogwarts, I assume that we will not be able to Apparate?"

Hermione shook her head. With all the tweaking of the wards, they'd strongly considered leaving off the Anti-Apparition aspects, but the Board of Governors had decreed it would be too great a security risk, and the wards had been reinstated.

"The Floo will not work for you," Dumbledore informed him, and watched with interest as Lucius huffed in annoyance.

"Then we will walk to the gates and Apparate from there," he decided.

Dumbledore smiled, and Hermione shivered.

"I'm afraid not," he said, his voice as congenial as ever.

The atmosphere in the room went from irritated and bewildered to tense in seconds.

"I think you'll find that it's quite impossible for you to leave this room," Dumbledore continued cheerfully. "At least, impossible to leave without me."

Draco, who was still struggling to fully wake, merely blinked in confusion. Lucius, however, flinched, and Hermione couldn't help thinking that it wasn't sporting to tell a man with Lucius Malfoy's past that he was trapped. He did, after all, have a rather unpleasant background of incarceration.

In an instant, Severus shifted his wand from where it had hung limply at his side to point it at the ghost. "You are not merely a ghost," Severus said, his eyes narrow. "You've performed magic. And you're threatening to keep us here against our will—something a ghost would not be capable of achieving. _What are you?_" he demanded.

Dumbledore raised both hands in a gesture of good will. "I think you'll find that I'm much as I used to be," he said, his tone both patient and kind.

Hermione wasn't fooled. "You didn't used to be dead," she pointed out, fingering her own wand.

"Well. Yes. There is that." Ignoring the wand trained on him, Dumbledore crossed the room to a chair and seated himself, his chains clanking loudly. "I suppose I am a ghost," he continued thoughtfully. "But not _just_ a ghost. I have a purpose, you see."

"Besides meddling in the affairs of others?" Severus sniped. "If not, you really haven't changed at all."

Dumbledore smiled again, and Hermione had to fight the desire to wipe the expression from his face. Would it kill the man to be forthright, just this one time?

"Or perhaps it's more of a mission, rather than a purpose," he speculated. "I'm not entirely certain. In any case, I have been chosen to guide the four of you through a series of life events." He smiled again. "Your own life events. Now, doesn't that sound like a capital idea?"

"It does _not_," Severus seethed, and his wand drew dangerously close to poking Dumbledore in the neck.

The ghost shrugged, chains once again rattling. "Well, it makes no difference. Whether you choose it or not, you will each be guided through the events of the past, the present, and the future."

The presence of a chained ghost and the mention of images from the past, present, and future clicked, and Hermione blinked. "Wait a minute. This sounds suspiciously like—"

"Now, now, Miss Granger. You mustn't ruin the surprise for the others," he admonished, eyes twinkling with amusement.

"What?" Lucius turned to her, his eyes blazing. "You are aware of whatever nefarious plot the damnable codger is involving us in?"

"No!" she exclaimed. "Well, not really," she amended, biting her bottom lip.

Lucius growled impatiently. "Well, speak up," he demanded. "Enlighten the rest of us, won't you?"

"I'm afraid there's no time," Dumbledore said, standing and clapping his hands together. "While Miss Granger may have sussed out the nature of the events that will be transpiring this night, she was in no way informed of these events prior to the rest of you. Pray cease the hostility and grasp my robe."

"I think not," Lucius sneered, crossing his arms over his chest. "I do not find the feel of ghosts pleasant at the best of times, and I think it fair to assume that you are certainly as repulsive of the rest of the ghosts inhabiting this castle."

Draco, who had remained silent to this point, joined his father and mimicked his posture. His stance lacked Lucius' haughtiness, but was a solid showing of controlled support that Hermione was rather grateful was not directed against her.

"I don't think we have a choice," she said reluctantly. "If this…" she waved her hand, "charade is what I think it is, we'll be forced to confront aspects from our past, present, and future." She frowned. "When should we expect the first spirit?" she inquired, turning to Dumbledore.

"Oh. Well. Yes." He pulled at his robe, causing the chains to clank and rattle once more. "I'm afraid you will have to be content with my presence for the duration of the night."

"But that's not right," Hermione objected. "There should be separate spirits for—"

Dumbledore held up a hand to silence her. "I believe there was mention of budget cuts. Now, if you don't mind…?"

He extended his arms to the group, almost as if he intended to embrace them. As one, they recoiled.

"My robe," he said softly. "You must place your hands on my robe to be transported to the first destination."

"All of us?" Hermione questioned. "Shouldn't this be done on an individual basis? I mean…" She bit her lip and looked at the three men. She had no desire the relive the most private moments of her life with them, and the thought of witnessing _theirs_ was singularly disturbing. Although it might be interesting, she admitted to herself.

"Miss Granger. I will repeat myself, and remind you of the budget cuts. This is to be a group effort."

"Group effort," she repeated blankly, her mind suddenly, inexplicably, picturing herself at a table in the library with the three Slytherins, forced together to work on a Charms project. Glancing at the three men, she could only shrug. At least they were intelligent, she reminded herself, shuddering when she pictured going through this nightmare with Lavender Brown.

Right, then.

"Well, let's get this over with, shall we?" She grasped Dumbledore's robe, being careful not to touch the ghost's body. He had already proven that he was not a typical spectre, such as the Bloody Baron, but she had no idea how corporeal his body really was, and she didn't care to find out.

"You're agreeing to this madness?" Severus asked, raising one eyebrow. "I thought you had more sense, Miss Granger."

Releasing her breath with a huff, she glared at her former Potions professor. "If it were done…" she said lightly, letting the rest of the phrase linger. She didn't expect any of the wizards to recognize Shakespeare, and she wasn't disappointed. Though there was just the hint of a smirk playing around Draco's lips… Of course, that was his natural expression, and it wouldn't do to read anything else into it.

"You'll be quite safe," Dumbledore continued. "And the sooner we begin, the sooner this… What did you call it, Miss Granger? _Charade_? In any case, the sooner we begin, the sooner we will finish." He waved the arm Hermione was not grasping, and the other three wizards eyed each other uneasily.

Cloak billowing behind him, Severus jiggled the handle of the door while Lucius strode to the fireplace and bellowed the name of his intended destination. Severus received a sharp jolt for his troubles while Lucius found himself covered in soot that the fireplace unceremoniously belched onto him.

"And _I'm_ the one constantly accused of reckless behaviour," Hermione muttered quietly.

Draco snorted, and the two shared brief but amused smiles. As the two older and supposedly more mature adults rounded on Dumbledore and began arguing loudly, Draco and Hermione retreated a few feet.

"So what do you think is really going on?" Draco asked, leaning close and keeping his voice low. "What's Dumbledore up to?"

Hermione shrugged and tossed her hair over her shoulder. It occurred to her that she hadn't so much as glanced in a mirror since she'd awoken, and that her hair was most likely a right mess. But it wasn't as if well-controlled hair was going to make a difference to the outcome of the evening.

"I think we're in some sort of Dickens-esque situation," Hermione started to explain, but was interrupted by the end of the argument she'd been attempting to tune out. Dumbledore was gliding and clanking towards them, and Severus and Lucius followed, frowning and looking as if they could smell something unpleasant.

"I believe we're ready now," Dumbledore said, smiling cheerfully once again and extending his arms.

"T'were best done quickly," she thought she heard someone mutter, but it was lost in the shuffle as they arranged themselves, each reaching towards Dumbledore but none quite touching his robes.

"Are you sure it's safe?" Draco asked, his voice only millimetres from her ear.

Hermione sighed and placed her hand on the robe. "Probably. In any case, I don't think we'll have any rest until we've fumbled our way through this charade."

"You've quite the skill with pep talks," Lucius commended her snidely, but followed her lead and extended his thumb and forefinger to pinch a tiny portion of the cloak. He grimaced, as if unsatisfied with the quality of the fabric. Draco followed suit, being careful to stay to the side and slightly behind Dumbledore so that he was looking at Hermione's face, rather than Dumbledore. Severus was the last to capitulate, giving Dumbledore a narrow-eyed look.

"If you mean to harm any one of us," he said in a voice just loud enough to be clearly heard by everyone in the room, "I swear that I will kill you a second time."

For the briefest of moments, Hermione thought she saw a flash of emotion on Dumbledore's face, but before she could identify it, Severus had grasped Dumbledore's arm in a strong grip, and the room began to swirl out of focus.

"Oh, Merlin," Draco groaned, doubling over and clutching his stomach. "This better not be like portkey travel."

Having no desire to arrive at their destination covered in sick, Hermione attempted to move unobtrusively further away from him, but they were already in mid-transport and any type of movement was impossible. Squeezing her eyes shut, she hoped that death hadn't affected Dumbledore's ability to Side-Along Apparate, because if the truth were told, she wasn't particularly fond of this form of transportation either.

To her immense relief, they landed softly. Even with her eyes closed, she could feel the brilliant sun and smell flowering plants.

"For heaven's sake," Lucius grumbled. "I could have Apparated myself if I'd known we were coming here."

"I'm afraid not," Dumbledore cheerfully contradicted him. "Seeing as how we're not actually 'here'."

She would have been more alarmed by this statement had she not suddenly felt a sharp peck on her thigh. She let out a startled gasp, and opened her eyes to find a magnificent peacock staring at her imperiously, as if inquiring why she had invaded its space. She snapped her head up and found that she was staring at an opulent Manor.

A familiar opulent Manor.

"Oh, bugger," she cursed, ignoring the peacock butting her hand. "We're at Malfoy Manor."

Author's Notes

Thanks, as always, to The Above and Beyond Team of Miss M and Miss B.

Characters from the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling. They are used without permission and not for profit.


	4. Chapter Three

**The Chains We Forge in Life**

**Chapter Three**

Hermione scowled as she followed Lucius Stinking Malfoy up the long and winding path. At least they were heading _away_ from the manor. That was the important part, she reminded herself. She aimed a petulant kick at a stone, and frowned as it stayed firmly put. Right. They weren't actually 'here', Dumbledore had explained. He'd likened what they were experiencing to viewing a memory in a Pensieve, but it was hard to keep that in mind when everything looked so _real_.

"Observe, Draco," Lucius said, and Hermione thought he sounded inordinately excited. "Just over this hill," he continued, taking Draco's arm and leading him off the path in a straighter trajectory, "is where Fondant built me a tree house."

A tree house? Hermione stopped short, incensed. She was trotting to keep up with Lucius the Prat Malfoy so that he could see a _tree house_? Severus, who, she noted grimly, had no trouble keeping up with Lucius' brisk stride, stopped beside her and offered her his arm.

"We needn't be in quite so much of a hurry," he said, walking beside her at a much more manageable pace. "I'm sure that Lucius will want a moment to show off his," he sneered, "_tree house_ to Draco."

"Now, now, Severus. No need to be churlish." Dumbledore's faint voice reached them easily enough, even though he was considerably behind them on the path. Severus and Hermione both turned to watch the spirit make his way toward them, chains dragging laboriously behind him. It was obvious that he was expending a considerable amount of energy to reach them, and Hermione knew that she should probably be feeling some sort of pity or compassion or sympathy, but she found that she felt curiously empty, instead. Almost blank, really.

How very odd.

She risked a glance at Severus, wondering how he felt about seeing the man whose life he had been compelled to take. His face was impassive, however, and despite his initial shock at the sight of the spirit, and the eagerness he'd shown in trying to leave the room at Hogwarts, she realized that he hadn't reacted strongly to Dumbledore's presence, either.

Had the war really desensitized them to this degree?

"We'll never end this bloody farce at this rate," Severus muttered, and met Dumbledore as he drew closer. "May I cast a charm on the chains?" he inquired politely, wand at the ready. "I fear that Draco and Lucius will have walked halfway to London before we catch them up."

Dumbledore shook his head. "I think you'll find these chains impervious to magic," he said, smiling sadly. "Though your offer is appreciated."

Severus waved the words aside and matched the spirit's slow pace as he returned to his place beside Hermione. They stood in silence for a moment, Hermione half-expecting to hear Dumbledore panting as he rested from dragging the cumbersome links, but it seemed that spirits didn't need to breathe. Which made her question why, exactly, the chains would even bother him. She frowned and was mentally running over a list of known characteristics of ghosts, spirits, and spectres when Dumbledore stood up a touch straighter and then followed the route Lucius and Draco had taken.

They found the two men looking up into the branches of an old and beautiful tree. A wooden structure was nestled in the uppermost branches, and Hermione could hear two voices, though neither of the speakers was visible.

"You isn't to be worrying about fallings, Master," a high, squeaky voice said. "I has charmed the tree home! You couldn't fall if yous tried!"

A head appeared in the window of the tree house, and Hermione gaped at the handsome little boy. The white-blond hair could belong to no one but a Malfoy. She darted a glance toward Draco, wondering if she was seeing him as a child.

"Father!" Draco gasped, also staring up at the little boy. "Is that—"

Lucius took a step back from the tree to find a better angle for viewing the child. "Yes," he said, his eyes on the child. "That is I."

And then Hermione could see the likeness, and wondered how she could have doubted it in the first place. The boy leaning dangerously far out of the window was solid in a way that she didn't think Draco had ever been, even as an active child. The young boy's eyes flashed with what Hermione suspected was victory, and she thought his smile looked rather more genuine than what was usually seen on a Malfoy, even if said Malfoy was barely out of nappies.

"I'd almost forgotten about those charms," Lucius said, transfixed. "I never did fall. Not once. Though I'm sure I put those charms through their paces."

"As charming as this pastoral scene is," Severus began, but Dumbledore merely shook his head.

"He'll need this," he said simply, "before the night is over. In fact, I rather believe that you _all_ will."

Severus huffed impatiently and crossed his arms over his chest. "I have never yet been in need of observing spoiled children receive said spoiling. I hardly care to begin now."

Dumbledore shook his head. "Still so prickly, Severus." He tutted disapprovingly. "I had hoped that the end of the war would see you relax a touch."

"Then you know me even less than I thought," Severus spat. "Honestly. How long are we to endure this?"

"Very well." Dumbledore sighed and snapped his fingers. The tree house wavered out of focus, causing Lucius and Draco to exclaim and turn angrily in his direction.

"What is the meaning of this?" Lucius demanded. "I would like to see more of—"

"No need to be alarmed, Lucius," Dumbledore said wearily. "This night is far from over. I suspect that this will not be your only opportunity to view your younger self."

Lucius looked uncertain briefly. "Do we choose the memories we wish to view?" he asked. "Do you pull them from our minds? Or are _you_ in charge of what we witness?" He grimaced at the last thought, and Hermione couldn't blame him. Who knew what kind of memories Dumbledore would choose, given free rein! And she certainly didn't want him in her mind, slinking through memories that he had no business intruding upon.

The thought of what he might pull from the three men was enough to turn her stomach.

"We are all being guided," Dumbledore said. "I am merely the vehicle, or catalyst, if you will, to transport you from memory to memory."

"Guided?" Severus questioned, frowning. Hermione could practically _see_ the tension radiate from him, and she found she didn't blame him in the least. Dumbledore, at least, was a known quantity. If _he_, the consummate puppet master, was being guided by another force… She shivered. Dumbledore had died. Who knew what or whom he'd encountered since then? The entire scenario had been odd from the get-go, but she'd been intrigued by the similarity to A _Christmas Carol_. And comforted. _That_ story, after all, had a happy ending. But really, it was naïve of her to assume that they were guaranteed the same happy conclusion. They were being manipulated by magic, Hermione reminded herself. Any number of things could go wrong. And if whoever was orchestrating this fiasco wanted to harm them… Well. It wouldn't be very hard to leave them trapped in this transient sort of memory world, would it?

She opened her mouth to demand answers, but was thwarted by the sudden gathering of mist and the familiar tug at her navel. They were off again, to Merlin knew where. Her only satisfaction was in Draco's grunt of annoyance and Lucius' muttered oath.

The sensation of falling through time and space didn't last nearly as long as it had on their initial trip, and when Hermione opened her eyes, she was chagrined to find herself staring at the front facade of the Manor they'd glimpsed upon their initial arrival.

"If I had known that we were on a Meet the Malfoys tour I would have brought my own peacock," Severus complained, glaring at the brightly plumaged bird strutting towards him. "Honestly, Lucius. What possible benefit do you find in keeping and breeding these popinjays?"

But Lucius was staring at an ornamental garden at the side of the house. "My mother's garden," he breathed. "Draco, you must see it. You have not truly appreciated a flower until you have seen and smelled her silver roses."

Draco raised an eyebrow, and Hermione had the distinct impression that he was less than impressed with his father's effusive description of flora. He did, however, allow himself to be led to the garden. Hermione and Severus lagged behind, close enough to hear Lucius wax eloquent on the intricate breeding processes his mother had employed to create the new strain of roses.

"The gardens were let go after her death," he lamented, "and her records lost or destroyed during…" He paused. "Well. No matter. Suffice it to say, I have not been able to replicate her success." He reached toward the blooming bush with a practiced, steady hand, but paused before coming in contact with the plant.

"I will not be able to touch it, will I?" he questioned, looking at the rose instead of Dumbledore.

"I am afraid not," Dumbledore confirmed.

Lucius' hand fell to his side, but he continued to study the flower. "She used to spend her mornings tending these flowers. Not once did she allow a house elf to assist her. And in the evenings she would sit for hours, content to watch them grow." He straightened. "I had not thought of this garden for years," he said, and nodded once in Dumbledore's direction. "I am pleased to see it again."

In lieu of a reply, Dumbledore merely flicked his fingers, and the sky changed from brilliant afternoon sun to midnight blue. The shock caused more than one gasp among the party, and Hermione snapped, "I really think you might give us some warning."

"Of course, Miss Granger," Dumbledore agreed, but though she couldn't see, she was quite certain that his eyes were twinkling, and that this would not be the last unheralded transport of the night. She took a deep breath, taking in the fragrant scent of the nearly invisible garden. The night was hot and humid, and she suspected that a thunderstorm was pending. Would they feel the rain, she wondered? They hadn't been able to make contact with any objects, but she could feel the heat. It would be just her luck that she'd feel the rain, too, she thought to herself, but quickly pushed the thought away when she heard the scuffle of stealthy feet.

A child, most likely an older version of the Lucius they'd seen in tree house, was wandering among the flowers, pausing often to smell or touch a bloom. His careful steps and furtive glances over his shoulder told Hermione that he was out of bed without permission, and she found herself smiling at the notion of Lucius Malfoy sneaking away from the tender care of his nanny elf to wander in a garden. It just went to prove, she reminded herself, that everyone was once a child.

And really, she couldn't blame him. The garden had been beautiful enough by daylight, but the fairy lights were now glowing softly, illuminating the dark with an ethereal haze. The flowers themselves seemed to take on a haunting luminescence that transformed them into objects of mystery as well as beauty.

By unspoken agreement, the group remained silent, even though they were incapable of disturbing the boy. With more patience than Hermione would have expected of a boy, ten years old at the outside, to exhibit, the young Lucius examined each bloom in detail, smoothing his fingers over the silky texture of the petals. His attention was so complete that Hermione found herself drifting closer to him, curiously compelled to take a closer look at the flowers herself. Before she had moved more than a few steps, however, the silence of the night was broken by the crack of Disapparation and a figure appeared just outside the garden.

Hermione clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle her gasp of surprise before remembering that she was merely a spectator without the capability of disturbing the scene. When the newly arrived figure faltered, staggered, and finally fell to his knees, both the young and the current Lucius started violently. Young Lucius secreted himself in a bush so swiftly and quietly that if she hadn't been practically beside him, Hermione would never have noticed him. Current Lucius let out a soft, strangled cry and stepped toward the figure.

The cry of a woman's voice filled the warm summer night air.

"Abraxas!" A tall, slender woman with her hair pinned in an elaborate twist rushed out of the patio doors. "Abraxas! What is it? What has happened?" She rushed straight to Abraxas, kneeling beside him in the lush grass.

Abraxas clutched his forearm and she sucked in a shuddering breath.

"I had to," he whispered. "I'm sorry, Lenore."

And though no tears marred the man's cheek, the agony in his voice was palpable. Lenore sagged, and Abraxas immediately stiffened his spine, holding her to him and lending support. Lenore's shoulders shook silently.

A queer choking noise emanated from young Lucius' hiding spot, and current Lucius tore his focus away from his parents to stare at the bush concealing his younger self.

"Lucius," Lenore whispered, her voice sounding tight and choked. "He must have slipped past Fondant again."

As if the physical and emotional duress they had just witnessed had never happened, both Abraxas and Lenore rose to their feet and stood straight, shoulders square, facing the rose bush.

"Come out, Lucius," Abraxas ordered, his tone kind but unyielding.

Young Lucius emerged from the rose bush biting his lower lip uncertainly, his gaze darting between his parents. Hermione tensed, wondering how Abraxas and Lenore would handle their son. Would they call for Fondant? March him up to bed themselves? Discipline him for his disobedience?

"Come here, son," Abraxas said, reaching out his hand.

Lucius obeyed immediately, though his steps were slow and halting. "Are you hurt, Father?" the boy asked, staring up at Abraxas with frightened grey eyes.

"No, son. I am perfectly well."

Young Lucius' shoulders sagged in relief, but current Lucius shook his head.

"Come," Lenore said, and took her son's hand. "Sit with us for a moment. Since you are awake anyway," she added archly, and young Lucius ducked his head at the mild rebuke.

"Yes, yes," Lenore said, smoothing down his hair and smiling affectionately at the young boy. "You wanted to walk among the flowers, I know."

Riveted by the familial interaction, Hermione followed quickly after the rest of her companions as Abraxas, Lenore, and young Lucius took seats at an ornate wrought iron table situated to view the gardens perfectly. Lucius sat between his parents, looking from one to the other, as if for an indication of what would happen next, and Hermione wondered if this was the first time he'd been caught out of bed.

"Lucius," Abraxas began, moving far enough away that he could look his child in the eye, "I believe it's time I told you about the meetings I attend."

Lenore flung both arms around her son in a reflexive motion that had young Lucius squirming in a bid to acquire freedom.

"Surely not, Abraxas," Lenore murmured. "He is too young!"

"He is the Malfoy heir," Abraxas replied, and there was steel in his voice. "He would do well to learn now what it means to be head of a family."

Even in the dark, Hermione could tell that Lenore's face had paled. She looked as if she wanted to argue further, but only closed her eyes instead, her grip on Lucius still tight. Suddenly curious as to how current Lucius was reacting to the scene, Hermione glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and saw that he was standing perfectly still, fists clenched at his sides. Draco stood beside him, looking vaguely uncomfortable, and she wondered if Lucius and Draco were close. Was this a memory that Lucius had already shared with Draco, or was it new to Draco? More importantly, how angry was Lucius going to be that not only his son, but Severus and Hermione had also witnessed what was obviously an emotionally charged memory? For it was not a question of whether or not he would be upset, Hermione thought ruefully. It was more a question of degree.

"It is the privilege and honour of the head of the Malfoy family to protect his family," Abraxas told his son. "It is necessary, it is right, and, when you are older and I am gone, you will find that love for your family will not allow you to act otherwise, difficult though your choices may be."

Lenore turned away. Her expression was carefully controlled, but the convulsing of her throat convinced Hermione that she was struggling not to cry.

"Tonight I made a very difficult decision," Abraxas continued, looking his son in the eye. "As you will also learn as you grow older, we are sometimes called upon to make decisions before we are ready, and when we can have no way of knowing what the results of those decisions will be."

Young Lucius nodded solemnly. "Yes, Father," he dutifully replied, though it was clear that he could not fully understand what his father meant.

"Tonight I made a decision to join a group," Abraxas continued, and began to roll up the already uncuffed sleeve of his shirt. Young Lucius watched with wide eyes as the first patch of black ink became visible.

Hermione felt a sickening twist of her stomach as she realized Abraxas was about to reveal the Dark Mark to his son. She'd seen more than her fair share of the Marks; in fact, the three men ranged around her each bore one, if she was not mistaken. But seeing the freshness of the jet black ink was somehow worse, though she couldn't explain why.

"But, Father," young Lucius protested, even as his fingers skimmed over the Mark. "You have always said that it is a disgrace to mar the physical perfection of the Malfoy body."

Abraxas winced as the raw skin of his forearm was irritated by Lucius' questing fingers, and exchanged a wry glance with Lenore.

"A Mark such as this is not to be taken lightly," Abraxas agreed, gently removing Lucius' hand from his arm. "And I hope that you will wait until you are an adult, and that you will think long and hard before you make a decision such as this."

"But, Father," Lucius said, frowning as he looked at the imposing snake and skull. "I don't understand. Why did you not choose peacocks? Or the Malfoy crest? Or—"

Abraxas rolled down his sleeve and adroitly buttoned the cuff, but Lucius continued to stare at his father's arm, though the Mark was no longer visible. Was it worse, Hermione wondered, to see the Mark, or to cover it, still knowing it was there? Was it possible to ever forget that it was there?

"Our world is changing," Abraxas continued, speaking both to his son and wife. "And people will soon have to decide in what they believe, and whom they wish to support."

"But Malfoys look only to themselves," Lucius said proudly. "Isn't that right, Father?"

The faintest ghost of a smile flitted over Abraxas' face before he sobered again. "That is true. But even a Malfoy has to choose his allies carefully. Even more so when an ally _must_ be chosen, and there is no good option."

Lucius nodded, though once again, it was obvious that his comprehension of the conversation was on a superficial level only.

"He has sucked in too many of our circle," Abraxas said quietly to Lenore over Lucius' head. "A choice had to be made, and you know Dumbledore's stance. I cannot put blind faith in a man with the appearance of openness, but who withholds information from his allies. Lord Voldemort holds no pretence."

"Better the devil you know," Lenore murmured, once again smoothing Lucius' hair and covering his ears at the same time. Lucius frowned and swatted ineffectually at the hands, but Lenore held firm and Lucius resigned himself to moving further into his mother's embrace. He was at an age where he desperately desired to be considered more than a child, yet it was clear that he also craved his parents' affection.

Abraxas and Lenore continued to converse above Lucius' head, but their tones were so low that Hermione could catch only one in every six words, and couldn't follow the flow of the conversation. Instead, she focused on young Lucius and the look on his face as he relaxed in his mother's arms and allowed his gaze to wander to the plants. He felt safe, Hermione realized. His parents loved him, he had every comfort a boy could ask for, and he was utterly content.

"Lucius," Lenore said after a time, gently calling his attention back to her. "You asked why your father did not take the mark of a peacock or the Malfoy crest."

Lucius nodded, his eyes heavy with sleep. Hermione watched in surprise as Lenore slid from the bench and knelt before her husband. With quick, industrious fingers she loosened Abraxas' cuff and rolled the sleeve. "This," she said, still kneeling but looking her son in the eyes, "whatever else it may be, is a mark of love and sacrifice in the Malfoy family. It is a mark of putting the good of the family above all else, and it is something to be proud of, even as we hold it close to our hearts and share it with no others."

Lucius nodded, seeming to understand that this was important to his mother. Abraxas closed his eyes, and Lenore rose to her feet, caressing her husband's cheek before offering him her hand. Abraxas, however, gathered Lucius into his lap. From the wide-eyed look of surprise on the boy's face, Hermione guessed that this was not a frequent occurrence.

"You must love us a lot," Lucius said, his tone matter-of-fact. "Because that Mark is quite ugly."

Abraxas held him tighter for just a second, and then let him go. "Yes, Lucius, I do," he said, watching as the boy ran toward the house. "Very much."

He and Lenore followed Lucius, arms at each others' waists.

Current Lucius made to follow, but Dumbledore stopped him by placing his hand on his arm. Lucius extricated himself, rising to his full height and staring down his nose at the spectre.

"Unhand me," he hissed. In the split second of Dumbledore's hesitation, Lucius flicked his wrist, and Dumbledore's hand fell limply away. Dumbledore continued to watch him, his expression thoughtful.

"Your father was a complex man," the spirit finally said. "He never did share with me his reasons for supporting Tom."

"It was never a matter of supporting the Dark Lord or agreeing with his ideals," Lucius seethed. "Which you would know, had you ever taken the time to really think about anything from a point of view other than your own." Draco moved to stand beside him and joined him in fixing Dumbledore with a penetrating, haughty glare. "It was about protecting his family in the only way he knew how. Voldemort was utterly determined to have the support of the affluent Pure Blood families, and fully capable of using any means necessary to secure it. By supporting him, my father placed himself in a position to stave off the immediate destruction of his family. Which is _not_ something that you have offered even your most loyal supporters," he finished with a sneer.

Hermione shuddered, thinking of the horrible losses the Order of the Phoenix had sustained, both in the first Wizarding War and the second. It was the Potter family, however, that it always came back to for her. The deaths of James and Lily were horrific unto themselves, but the fact that Dumbledore had groomed Harry to be an unknowing human sacrifice…

Especially considering that Harry would have given his life without a second thought with or without the issue of the bloody Horcrux.

For Dumbledore to make that decision _for_ him, however…

The reckless disregard for Harry's humanity still stung.

"We all made decisions to the best of our abilities with the facts we had at the time," Dumbledore said, and more than one person huffed in annoyance at his sanctimonious tone.

"Some of those decisions might have been easier, had more people been aware of pertinent information," Severus muttered.

"Am I the only one who finds it ironic that Abraxas Malfoy sided with Voldemort because he felt that Voldemort was the more forthright of him and Dumbledore?" Hermione asked, still trying to come to terms with what she'd witnessed.

Severus and Lucius maintained their impassive expressions, but Draco's stifled snort told Hermione that he'd had similar thoughts.

"Be that as it may," Dumbledore said mildly, "I do believe we're right on track for our next adventure!" He clapped his hands together with an expectant expression of enthusiasm, even as his chains clanked loudly, the grating sound causing Hermione to grit her teeth. She frowned at the chains, surprised to see one that looked almost identical to the roses of the Malfoy garden.

"More?" Lucius asked. "I fear what you'll show us next. Perhaps a moment of pre-pubescent awkwardness? My first kiss?" Disdain etched on his aristocratic features, he idly tapped his cane against the ground several times. "Well? How long is this farce to continue?"

Dumbledore smiled benignly. "As long as it takes, I should think."

Severus expelled his breath harshly. "Death hasn't changed you in the least," he informed the spectre, his words clipped with annoyance. "You remain as bloody cryptic as you ever were."

Dumbledore's eyes glinted for just a second. "I think," he said softly, "that I shall enjoy _your_ journey thoroughly." Idly rubbing at his wrist where the manacles chafed, he extended his arms. "Touch my robes," he instructed, just as he had at Hogwarts.

Hermione felt a queer clutching at her chest. Once again, she wasn't certain which she dreaded more: journeying into her own past, or into that of her companions.

"Well, come on, then," Severus snapped, and Hermione saw that the three men had already taken their places around Dumbledore and were waiting for her. The only place left for her, unsurprisingly, was next to Draco.

"If you toss your cookies on me, I'm hexing you," she warned him, even as she touched Dumbledore's robe and the swirling mist surrounded them.

Author's Notes:

Thanks, as always, to The Above and Beyond Team of Miss M and Miss B.

Characters from the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling. They are used without permission and not for profit.


	5. Chapter Four

**The Chains We Forge in Life**

**Chapter Four**

Waking in a strange bed, Hermione found, was even less ideal than it sounded. Especially considering the fact that, once again, she was not alone. This time, however, she was not the first to wake. Severus Snape snapped to meet her gaze, ceasing what she assumed to be a thorough cataloguing of the room, or rather, what could be seen of the room from between the curtains of the lavish bed.

"Quickly," he hissed. "Explain what you know of this fiasco."

"Oh!" She blinked, her dry and burning eyes telling her that they most likely had not been granted any measure of real sleep.

"Before Dumbledore returns to snatch us away again," Severus prompted.

"Right." Clearing her throat delicately, she deliberately avoided looking at Lucius and Draco, quite certain that both were snuggling a good deal closer to her than they had any right to. "Have you read any Dickens?" she asked, tugging at the constricting collar of her… nightdress? She looked down, momentarily distracted, and discovered that she was wearing a heavy white nightgown, complete with lace yoke. Grimacing, she debated undoing the top button, but Severus claimed her attention again before she could accomplish it.

"Yes, yes," he said dismissively. "_David Copperfield_ was moderately entertaining."

She waited for the dawning of recognition, but Severus' expression remained expectant.

"You've never read _A Christmas Carol_?" she asked. "Or seen the movie?" It was fairly obvious that he hadn't, but given that he had grown up in a Muggle household, she found it hard to believe that he could have escaped the way the story had trickled into almost every form of media.

"I should think it obvious that I have not," he hissed. Lucius stirred, flinging an arm over Severus' leg and causing the dark wizard to scowl prodigiously before displacing him.

"It seems to be a little different than what's happening here," Hermione said, thinking out loud. "In the story, Ebenezer Scrooge is visited first by the ghost of his deceased business partner, and then by the spirits of the past, present, and future."

Severus paled at the notion.

"But Dumbledore said something about budget cuts," she continued, frowning. "I think he's the only ghost we'll be seeing. He did, after all, escort us on our journey into Lucius' past."

"And what, pray tell, is the point of this absurdity?" Severus asked, shifting on the bed and lazily aiming his wand at Lucius as the blond man once again attempted to invade his personal space.

"To show Ebenezer the error of his ways," Hermione responded promptly. "And to give him hope for a changed future."

His face puckered in an expression of loathing, Severus settled back against the headboard. "Of course," he muttered darkly. "How very Gryffindor."

"Well, it wasn't my idea," Hermione snapped. "I'd just as soon give this experience a pass too, you know."

"Yes. No doubt you were intended to be celebrating the season in the bosom of your—" He stopped abruptly. "My apologies, Miss Granger," he finished stiffly.

Lips pressed together, she smiled tightly and then looked away. Draco chose that moment to make a queer sort of sound, low in the back of the throat, and she gratefully turned her attention away from her former Potions professor to stare at the younger Malfoy, who somehow managed to look aloof even in slumber.

"Oh, Merlin," Severus said, raising his wand once again. "I think it's time we woke the little prince."

"Why?" Hermione asked, frowning. "Shouldn't we just let him rest? I mean, he's certainly less trouble this way…"

Severus' lips twitched slightly as he looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "I must assume that you have not often woken in the company of a young man," he said, and waved his wand. Before she could react to his statement, Draco was jolted awake, once again coughing and spluttering. He glared balefully at his fellow bedmates. "I'll have you know I was having a most delightful dream—"

"Yes," Severus interrupted. "I assure you, we are quite aware of that, Draco."

She hadn't thought to see a Malfoy blush, but Draco came suspiciously close.

"Ah. Right," he said, straightening his… night shirt? Hermione's eyes widened as she realized that Draco, too, had been outfitted with different attire as they slept. And so, for that matter, had Severus and Lucius. The three men were each wearing an old-fashioned night shirt, and judging by the expression on Draco's face, it was _not_ his usual attire.

"What in Merlin's name," Draco began, struggling to cover his knees (which were surprisingly bony, Hermione noted) and inadvertently driving his foot against his father.

"I believe we were paid a visit from the clothing fairy whilst we slept," Hermione informed him, watching Lucius' expression change from vaguely sleepy to tightly controlled in an instant. "I can only hope that we were dressed using magic," she added, grimacing at the notion of Dumbledore removing her clothes and dressing her in the nightgown.

The three wizards looked slightly ill.

"Ah!" Dumbledore's cheerful voice wafted through the curtains of the bed, giving them only a split second of warning before said curtains were magically thrust apart. "I see you're ready for the next leg of our journey."

Draco, apparently no longer concerned with keeping his bits and pieces covered, flopped back to bed and tucked his head under a pillow. "Can't make me," he muttered into the mattress, but Dumbledore merely pointed his wand and the bed covers pulled away and folded themselves neatly at the foot of the bed. Grateful for the coverage afforded by her ankle-length nightgown, Hermione smirked as the three males tugged down their noticeably shorter night shirts. From the frantic nature of their movements, she had to assume that Dumbledore had not provided them with pants. Of course, _she_ was also sans knickers, but she was trying hard not to think about _that_ in any detail.

"Don't you all look lovely," Dumbledore continued, smiling benevolently at the group lounged on the bed. "I've always found night shirts most comfortable. So very freeing." Before either Severus or Lucius could translate their glowers into curses (Draco was still wiping the sleep from his eyes), Dumbledore once again beckoned for them to join him.

"Many more places to visit before the night is over," he informed them. "Come along quickly."

"I fail to see why this little adventure requires the sacrifice of our sleep," Lucius muttered, rising from the bed with grace. Severus followed immediately, glaring at the room, Dumbledore, and his fellow adventurers equally. Hermione rose with less grace, managing to tangle herself in the sheets that had not been folded and placed at the foot of the bed, but Draco merely sighed and offered her his arm as she fought her way out of the bed.

"Who's next?" Hermione asked. She positioned herself close to Dumbledore, but didn't reach to touch his robes. Draco stood beside her, arms crossed defiantly across his chest. "I mean," she continued when Dumbledore didn't answer, "We've been to Malfoy Manor and observed Mr Malfoy's childhood. I assume that we're finished with him, then?" Without waiting for an answer, she barrelled on. "And I imagine that we would have just stayed there if we were scheduled to do Draco's past next. So I can only infer that either Severus or I am next. Who is it?"

"Always such a mind for logic," Dumbledore said, sounding both proud and amused. "But you mustn't assume that we're finished with Mr Malfoy's past. It's possible that he's entirely too complex a person to limit to a single excursion."

"All that to say that you really have no idea where we will be travelling next or whose past we will invade," Severus sneered. "You know scarcely more of the agenda than _we_ do."

Dumbledore's gaze sharpened momentarily, but rapidly smoothed to his normal expression of disinterested benevolence. "As you say, Severus," he said mildly. "In any case, none of us will be free until we complete the journey we have begun."

"Sometimes," Hermione muttered, taking her place next to Draco, "I really hate magic." At the surprised expressions of the men surrounding her, she explained, "If we were in the Muggle world, we could overpower Dumbledore, escape, and report him to the police. Simple. But we, of course, have no escape and are magically bound to complete this _journey_." She used Dumbledore's term with contempt, preferring her own word choice of "farce". "Not to mention the fact that I'd be reporting a ghost," she added belatedly. "Infuriating magical creatures…"

"Yes," Dumbledore said, looking both thoughtful and displeased at the same time. "Magic _is_ a curious thing, isn't it?"

"Yes, yes. Exceedingly curious. Now could we please _proceed_?" Lucius snapped, his impatience seeming to increase by the second. As well it might, Hermione reasoned, seeing as how he was the only one who had fairly good odds that his life wasn't about to be put on display for all to inspect. If she were Lucius, she'd be eager to have the rest of the evening over and done with as soon as possible, herself.

Dumbledore clapped his hands together in anticipation, setting the chains rattling loudly enough to cause Hermione to wince.

"Now, then. If you're all quite ready?"

Hermione took a deep breath and grasped the sleeve of Dumbledore's robe. Chancing to look up at the spectre's face, she found him staring at Severus, his expression calculating, bordering on… eager? She frowned, wondering if she was misinterpreting the expression, but before she could decide they were swirling away to their next location, and her attention was focused on the sound of Draco's valiant attempting to avoid retching.

"Draco," Lucius scolded as they arrived in what appeared to be a parlour. "_Do_ control yourself. A Malfoy does not arrive at any destination covered in sick." He paused, taking in the room. A frown momentarily crossed his forehead at the sight of shabby furniture, a well-worn floor, and the distinct aroma of cramped impoverishment.

"Feel free to disregard your father," Severus instructed, lips pressed in a line so tightly that they almost disappeared from view. "You may soil any part of this establishment at your leisure."

Dumbledore's eyes lit up. "Capital!" he exclaimed. "I had hoped that this would be our next stop," he said, gazing around the room curiously. Hermione had no doubt that he was cataloguing every detail with his sharp eyes and sharper mind. What he expected to find in such a dreary room, however, was beyond her.

"Spinner's End," Severus said shortly, confirming her suspicions. "My childhood…" He paused. "Home."

Lucius shifted, revulsion stamped across his every feature. "Charming," he said drily. "I begin to see why you went home so infrequently during your Hogwarts—"

He stopped abruptly as a man of medium height but substantial girth stumbled into the room. His dark hair was a greasy mass of tangles, and his face was flushed from drink. Walking a straight line was obviously outside his current repertoire of skills. He wove unsteadily past a scarred end table and eventually clung to the back of a sofa that at one point might have been a colour, but was now the dingy drear of years and stains.

"Boy!" he bellowed, laboriously making his way to the front of the sofa. He collapsed in a mass of limbs and stomach, causing both the couch and the floor to groan in protest. Hermione shuddered, wishing that she were anywhere but trapped in the presence of the toxic man.

"Boy!" he repeated, pausing to rub at his chest as he belched wetly. "Here! Now!" he demanded.

Hermione's heart leapt to her throat at an unexpected flash of movement in the shadowed corner of the room. A boy, no more than nine years old, carefully extricated himself from a narrow patch of space between a cabinet and a wall. He had a book tucked under his arm, but Hermione couldn't understand how he'd been able to read it; the windows of the room were bare, but so filthy as to let in only the smallest measure of light from the setting sun.

"_Boy!_" the man repeated, startling the child into dropping the book he carried, and alerting the man to his presence. "There you are," he said, glaring at him through unfocused eyes. "Took you long enough."

The boy, as dark as his father but tall and thin as a rail, took halting steps until he stood, hands clenched into fists, in front of the couch. Hermione couldn't say exactly why this disturbed her so, but it did. Between the stench of alcohol and that of fear, though, she had a sickening feeling that she knew what was coming. A quick glance at Severus confirmed her fears—he was standing rigidly, his face utterly devoid of colour. He'd always been pale, but this was something else, Hermione knew. And she rather thought that anything that caused the formidable Severus Snape so much discomfort was something that she would be content to avoid for the remainder of her natural life.

"You've been reading again," the man accused, his head swivelling with difficulty to face his son. "More of that," he paused, and grew even more ugly as he sneered in distaste, "_magical_ nonsense?"

Hermione cringed as Young Severus' spine stiffened. _No_, she wanted to plead. _Don't talk back to him!_

But Young Severus had more control that she'd credited him with.

Instead of defending himself, he merely met his father's glare with stony silence.

"Well?" Mr Snape demanded. "Answer me, boy!"

"Yes, Father. I was reading." The words were polite, but spoken between clenched teeth. The tension in the room grew, becoming an almost tangible force. "I was reading a magical book," he said, and something in his eyes flickered. As if he had reached a decision, the aura of fear that shrouded the young boy fell away, and in its place Hermione saw someone who had been pushed too far, and who was ready to stand up for himself.

If anything, this terrified her even more.

"Would you like to see what I've learned, Father?" Severus asked. With a flick of his wrist, a wand that had been secreted in his sleeve slid smoothly into his hand, and Hermione had to wonder how many times he'd practiced the movement. And where had the wand come from? He wasn't yet old enough to be attending Hogwarts… Oh. Of course. Seeing that the wand looked nothing like the one he now carried, she realized that he must have appropriated his mother's wand.

Tobias Snape squinted at the slender piece of wood in his son's hand. "You put that away, boy," he hissed, speaking over top of Severus' voice. "There will be no waving of wands in my house!" He lunged toward Severus, but the boy finished what he was saying and stepped nimbly aside, watching his father sprawl to the floor.

"That was a Jelly Legs Jinx," Severus informed him, grasping the wand so tightly that his knuckles were white. "Shall I show you a Stinging Hex, Father? Professor Dumbledore brought me the most fascinating reading material the last time he visited. I've loads of other spells to show you."

Hermione watched with wide eyes as Severus began the incantation and wand movements of the Stinging Hex. He performed it flawlessly, and Tobias let out a bellow of pain and outrage as his face erupted in painful sores. Accurate as his spells had been, Severus was still only nine years old. The Jelly Legs Jinx evaporated as he concentrated on the Stinging Hex, and Tobias was able to pull himself to his knees.

"I'll get you for this, boy," he wheezed, pawing at his face and ripping open the sores. Blood trickled down his face and splattered his already soiled clothing. He struggled to get to his feet, but his murderous intent was obvious.

"Dumbledore sent an extra book this time," Severus said, training his wand on his father. "With spells to be used only if my life or Mother's life is in danger."

Hermione's heart sank.

"Are you threatening me, Father?" Severus asked quietly.

"A man don't need threats when he has fists," Tobias sneered, and lunged.

"_Cruc_—" Severus began the curse, but didn't have time to finish it before his father was upon him, literally. Tobias tackled him to the floor, where they both landed heavily. Severus struggled to breathe, the weight of his father crushing him.

"Not so brave now, boy, are you?" Tobias taunted. He raised himself up just high enough to land a blow. Hermione heard a sickening crack and saw blood spurt from Severus' nose. She stared in horror at the familiar, sickening angle it adopted. Severus grunted, but didn't betray any other acknowledgement of the pain he had to be feeling, and she wondered how many times this had happened in the past.

"Tobias!"

Every head in the room turned to the new voice. In the doorway stood a woman aged beyond her years, her dress faded and worn, her hair matted and unkempt.

"Quiet, woman!" Tobias bellowed, but stopped raining blows on his son. Hermione thought that Young Severus would be relieved by this turn of events, but one glance at the boy's terrified face informed her that she was very wrong. Clumsily, slowly, Tobias drew his bulk off Severus and regained his feet.

"You know better than to interfere when I'm teaching the boy his lessons," he said softly, walking slowly until he was face to face with his wife. She shrank back into the doorway and turned as if to leave, but Tobias snaked out a hand surprisingly quickly for a drunk man and hauled her back into the room. "You know better than that, don't you?" he asked.

Staring at the floor, Eileen nodded. "I just didn't want the neighbours to hear," she whispered. "You know you don't like it when they call the police."

"The police," Tobias spat. "The police have better things to do than worry about a father teaching his son respect."

She nodded miserably. "Yes, of course."

"Do you know what the boy did?" Tobias continued, his grip on Eileen's arm strengthening. She winced but didn't struggle.

"No," she whispered. "No, I don't know."

With one forceful tug, he sent Eileen sprawling into the room. She landed hard on her hands and knees, the force of her fall causing the floor to groan. Severus lunged toward her, but Tobias sent him sprawling to the floor as well with one backhanded strike.

"He stole your wand!" Tobias yelled, his face turning an ugly shade of purple. "He stole your wand and turned it on me!"

Eileen's eyes widened and landed on her son. Young Severus' expression was a horrid combination of guilt and impotent fury, but Eileen only gave him a miniscule nod. "I'm sure he didn't mean to," she said in what Hermione could see would be a futile attempt to placate her husband. "Young wizards don't know their own strength. I've told you of accidental magic…" Her voice trailed off as she realized that neither Tobias or Severus would welcome her words.

"I won't have him practicing his spells on me," Tobias spat. "Filthy magic." He made a lunge for the stick of wood that Severus still held, but overbalanced and landed in a heap on the floor. Quick as a whip, Eileen snatched the wand from her son and cast a Sleeping charm on the fallen man. When she had finished, she collapsed on the couch, her hand pressed to her chest.

"Oh, Severus," she said, her voice watery. "Why? You _know_ what he's like! Why must you keep—" Burying her face in her hands, she wept.

Young Severus scowled at the floor, blood dripping from his nose. When Eileen extended one of her tear-soaked hands, however, he took it, kneeling in front of her as she sat on the couch.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "But…"

"I know," she said, blotting her tears with a fraying lace-trimmed handkerchief. "I know." After checking to make sure that Tobias really was still sleeping, she leaned closer to Severus. "What spell did you use?" she asked, showing what Hermione suspected was a rare display of animation.

Severus' lips twitched. "Jelly Legs Jinx," he said, his eyes darting to his father's prone form. "And a Stinging Hex."

Eileen had looked amused by the first spell, but slightly uncomfortable with the second. "Oh, dear," she said. "That _does_ explain his face, I suppose…"

Hermione bit her lip, waiting for Young Severus to admit that he had attempted an Unforgivable Curse, but the moment passed without further confession.

"Well," Eileen said, holding out her hand. "We don't want him remembering any of this, do we?"

Severus handed her the wand, and she performed a smart memory charm ensuring that Tobias would wake without memories of Severus cursing him. The lack of commentary and facial expression from both Eileen and Severus indicated that this was not a first-time event, and Hermione was suddenly incredibly weary. She'd seen the darker side of human nature more times than she could count, but it had never been quite like this.

"You had to have known."

Severus, the "real" Severus, startled her. Having almost forgotten that she was not alone watching the scene before her play out, she whipped around to face the present version of the young man she'd just seen traumatized. To her shame and relief, though, he was not addressing her. Severus Snape was pale beyond what she thought humanly possible, and obviously hanging on to his control by a thread.

Dumbledore stared back at him for a long moment, as if calculating what to say. "I did what I thought was best," he finally volunteered, and Hermione wanted to snort. That was the best he could come up with? Perhaps death had affected him more than she thought.

"You _knew_ that I would use every spell in my arsenal," Severus continued. "And you deliberately gave a nine-year-old child a book containing Dark spells. You _had_ to know that I would use them! Everyone always wondered how I arrived at Hogwarts knowing so many Dark spells. It was all thanks to _you_, and not my predisposition to the field. You _knew_ that my father was an abusive wretch, yet you did nothing to remove me or my mother from his presence. You _knew_." He punctuated the last statement by stepping directly in front of Dumbledore. "You did what you thought was best? Did you really think that arming me with Dark spells would help my relationship with my magic-hating Muggle father?"

Dumbledore shifted uncomfortably, causing his chains to rattle. "I may have miscalculated," he admitted.

"Miscalculated!" Severus shook with rage. "_Miscalculated?_ With a child's life!" He threw his hands up in disgust and turned away. "I assume we can leave this godsforsaken hell hole now that we've all witnessed my horror of a childhood?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes. Yes, of course. I feel it only fair to warn you, however, that we are not _entirely_ finished with—"

"Of course we're not," Severus bit. "Just do it, then," he said, grasping Dumbledore's robe. "This night cannot end soon enough."

Silently and without making eye contact, Hermione, Lucius, and Draco took their places around Dumbledore. She was hardly in the position of agreeing with Severus on a regular basis, but couldn't help but to fervently echo his sentiment that the night could not end soon enough.

Author's Notes:

Thanks, as always, to The Above and Beyond Team of Miss M and Miss B.

Characters from the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling. They are used without permission and not for profit.


	6. Chapter Five

**The Chains We Forge in Life**

**Chapter Five**

For the first time in her life, Hermione wished that the Apparition had taken longer. The nausea and sense of being completely bereft of time and space _had_ to be preferable to landing in another location like Spinner's End. When they were on solid ground again, however, and she could no longer put off opening her eyes, she discovered that she was in one of her very favourite places.

"Hogwarts!" she exclaimed, smiling happily at the bustling Great Hall.

Disregarding the throngs of students, she focused on the architecture of the room, the placement of tables, the decorations, and the portraits. She'd spent months working to restore Hogwarts, but sometimes she wondered about the end result. They'd wanted to keep to the original as much as possible, but it hadn't always been practical, or even possible. Sometimes she even wondered if they were remembering the original Great Hall accurately—time had a way of playing tricks with how the past was perceived. Had they glorified the destroyed Great Hall in their minds, desperate to hang on to the more carefree pre-war memories?

No, she thought, staring at the red, green, blue, and yellow House banners lining the outer walls of the room. The Great Hall had been majestic, and it still was.

"Is that you, Father?" Draco asked, drawing Hermione's attention to the fact that the room was, indeed, filled with students.

"Yes," Lucius said thoughtfully. "Seventh year, I believe. And your mother is beside me."

They all turned to watch as Lucius and Narcissa held court at the Slytherin table. Their fellow House members were grouped around them, and though none were so gauche as to hang on their every word, it was obvious that it was the future power couple that they all looked to in order to set the tone of the meal and to direct the flow of conversation.

Hermione glanced down the table, wondering if she would be able to recognize anyone else. Harry's parents, perhaps? Neville's? The Marauders? The figure that caught her eye, however, was a familiar, sallow-skinned, lanky boy. He was older than he had been in the scene they had just left, but the boy at the end of the table, farthest from Lucius and Narcissa, seemingly ignored by his peers, was most certainly Severus Snape. Head bent over a book, he occasionally lifted a forkful of food to his mouth, but the majority of the food on his plate went untouched as he turned page after page. The students seated closest to him only rarely looked at him, and when they did, it was with amused scorn. Severus appeared not to notice, and Hermione wondered if his book really was so interesting that he was able to block out everything around him, or if he was merely pretending so that he didn't have to acknowledge his fellow House members.

She had just decided to move closer in the hope of reading over his shoulder when Severus pushed his plate aside, closed his book, and slipped it inside his satchel. The bag was old, the leather cracked, and the strap worn. It was obvious that he hadn't yet learned undetectable expansion spells (and really, how could he? He didn't look to be any older than a second-year) when he winced at the weight as he slung the bag onto his shoulder. Without sparing a glance for anyone at his table, he hurried out of the Great Hall as if he were late for his next class.

Hermione followed, curious about what class they might get to attend. Would she have the privilege of observing a young Professor Snape in the Potions classroom? Would his talent have manifested already, or would he merely be another student endeavoring to make it through class without singeing his own eyebrows? Or perhaps Transfiguration! Surely Professor McGonagall had been his professor—it would be lovely to see her as a younger woman!

Instead, Hermione found herself trailing after a young Severus up to a second floor boys' lavatory. She stopped short, unwilling to enter the room even if she wasn't exactly corporeal at the moment.

"Gracious," Lucius drawled, folding his arms over his chest. "I'd have stayed in the Great Hall if—"

"Hush!" Hermione scolded, watching a group of students come down the corridor towards them. She squinted, almost certain that she recognized the cocky strut of—

"The Marauders!" she breathed, and her heart thumped painfully in her chest. As the group drew nearer, she easily recognized Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, and James Potter. Having met three of the four in real life, she fixed her attention on Harry's father, transfixed by the similarities in their appearances.

"I can't even go on a bloody out-of-reality experience without running into a Potter," Draco muttered under his breath, but it was Severus' tightly clenched fists and furious expression that drew Hermione's attention away from the Marauders.

"What is it?" she asked with a sense of dread. "They're about to do something horrible to you, aren't they?" she demanded.

Severus was staring at the four boys, and if looks could kill, she had no doubt that they'd be six feet under, and happy to be there.

"I cannot be certain, of course, without a more specific knowledge of the date," he said through clenched teeth, "but I believe you are correct."

Potter, Black, Lupin, and Pettigrew exchanged meaningful glances and then followed Severus into the lavatory, pushing and shoving good-naturedly. Hermione wrinkled her nose, both at the thought of what might be transpiring on the other side of the door, and the thought of having to witness it.

"Come, come," Dumbledore said cheerfully, giving Draco a gentle push. "In you go now."

"Hey!" he protested, fighting the spectre's nudge. "I really don't think—"

"Oh, very well," Severus snapped, pushing Draco aside and striding through the door. "We'll have no peace until we witness whatever contemptible actions they have in mind."

With a shrug, Lucius followed and Draco and Hermione were left standing awkwardly in the corridor.

"Scared?" Draco asked, looking amused at Hermione's reluctance to enter the boys' loo and seeming to forget his own. "I never took you for a prude. Not after living on the run with Potter and Weasley for a year."

She bristled, as she suspected was his goal. "I am _not_ a prude," she insisted. "I just… Arg!" With a growl of frustration, she thrust open the door, resigned to watching whatever drama was transpiring to play out. She wasn't certain why she was so reluctant to enter the room. It couldn't possibly be worse than Spinner's End. Still, she couldn't repress a shudder as she took up a position close to the door beside the bank of sinks.

Dirty.

She felt dirty, and it wasn't because pubescent boys were not generally known for their hygiene.

No, she thought, watching the Marauders as they crowded around the sinks, smirking at each other and making curious hand signals while they pretended to wash up, she felt dirty knowing that she was about to witness a cruel act of bullying.

And guilty.

Because instead of remembering the many times she'd borne the brunt of her classmates' teasing, she heard every catty remark she'd ever made about Lavender Brown and Fleur Delacour run through her head. Oh, she'd never treated them maliciously, not like how she suspected the Marauders were about to treat Severus, but she'd been intimidated by their natural beauty and ease with men, and had therefore scorned them, needing to consider herself better than them in some way.

Much like Potter, Black, Lupin, and Pettigrew treated Severus.

It was a sobering revelation.

Taking a deep breath, she moved farther into the room and stood directly beside Severus, being careful not to actually touch him. She wanted to show support, not irritate him.

"Ah," said Severus, watching his younger self emerge from a stall and carefully hoist his book bag over his shoulder. "Yes, I remember this particular exchange."

Young Severus slinked toward the sinks, his head down, as if trying to become invisible. He chose a sink as far as possible from the Marauders, who gave up the pretence of washing their hands and slowly moved to surround him. Severus dried his hands meticulously, refusing to look at the boys. Another student started to enter the room, but turned and left immediately after stammering an excuse when he saw the situation unfolding.

No one paid him any attention.

"Nice book bag, Snivellus," Black sneered. "But if that's what you're going to use, shouldn't you be in the _girls'_ lav? I hear Moaning Myrtle's loo is usually free." The Marauders all chuckled when spots of colour appeared on Severus' cheeks.

Hermione frowned in confusion. What was Black on about? Severus' book bag was perfectly normal. A little worn and tattered, certainly, but she could say the same of her own. In fact, she noticed, examining the bag in more detail, her bag had the same latch system as Severus'. It was a well-built bag—the straps wrapped completely around the base of the bag, providing extra strength. And the elegant buckles were heavily reinforced to ensure longer wear. Her book bag was one of the few items she'd spent money on in preparation for entering Hogwarts. In fact, she fondly remembered her mother taking her into the luxurious leather department at Harrods and teaching her how to select a bag that would last for years. She'd wanted the biggest bag possible, and her mother had guided her through the maze of options to find a serviceable, yet feminine bag. It was all in the lines, she remembered.

The same lines that she recognized in Severus' bag.

Oh, bugger. Severus was using a woman's book bag, and Black was enough of a fashion snob to both notice and comment on it.

"Maybe I should carry it for you," Potter taunted, and reached to grab the bag. "Isn't that what girls like?"

"Oh, James," Pettigrew cooed in a falsetto voice and fluttered his eyelashes. "You're so big and strong! Won't you carry my books for me?" He giggled and pressed his arms together to mimic a woman displaying her cleavage.

Severus gripped the strap of the bag tightly, but Potter was bigger and stronger. After a brief struggle and a particularly vicious tug, both Severus and the bag were sprawled on the cold tile floor of the lavatory. The buckle tore free and several books spilled from the bag and skidded across the floor.

"Tsk, tsk," James said, clucking his tongue. "You're not showing proper respect for your possessions, Snivellus." Crossing his arms over his chest, he stared down at Severus. "Aren't you going to pick them up?"

Severus glared at him. After a standoff that became fraught with more and more tension, he reached for a book, his eyes still trained on his tormentor.

"Oops," Black said, kicking the book out of reach. "My foot must have slipped." His foot hovered over Severus' outstretched hand, and Hermione held her breath, waiting to see if he would stomp on it. Clutching the book bag to his chest, Severus scrambled out of reach of Black's foot, only to be met with derisive laughter.

"Slithering around on the cold, hard floor," Pettigrew taunted. "That's perfect for you."

Severus ignored him, retrieving his scattered books as quickly as possible and jamming them into his bag.

"Oh, look at that," Potter said with a tone of practiced innocence. "I think I hear the drains rattling. Maybe Myrtle's coming up through the pipes, lads. Think she'll create a mess?"

Black, Lupin, and Pettigrew began making poor imitations of water rushing through pipes while Potter pointed his wand at the nearest stall. "_Augmenti!_" he cried, and a burst of water shot forth from the toilet. A little flick of Potter's wrist, and the water landed on Severus, soaking both him and his books.

Hermione gasped at the wanton destruction of books. When a tightly bound scroll of parchment was carried away by the still streaming gush of water, she winced, knowing that a homework assignment had likely been destroyed.

Severus lunged for the parchment, but slipped on the slick floor. With the water still gushing from the toilet, he was unable to regain his balance and skidded directly into Potter, causing both of them to crash to the floor. Potter's book bag went flying, and Hermione couldn't suppress a tight smile when she observed his books landing in the disgusting mixture of murky water and detritus on the slimy floor.

Rejoicing in the misfortune of others wasn't something she was necessarily proud of, but it seemed a shame not to enjoy Potter's revulsion, at least a little.

"Snape!" he spat. "How dare you—"

"What, may I ask, is going on in here?" a familiar voice demanded, and Hermione's wish to see a younger Professor McGonagall was fulfilled. At first glance, however, the only difference Hermione could discern between the two was that the McGonagall of Severus' day possessed rather few gray hairs. With a flick of her wand, the flow of water from the toilet ceased, leaving only the sound of the occasional drip.

"Snape knocked into me!" Potter exclaimed, glaring at the young man who was still scrambling to pick up his books.

"And the water?" she pressed, tapping a foot impatiently. "I hardly think a minor collision between two students could produce such a mess."

"The water came out of the stall Sni, er, Snape was just in," Pettigrew offered, his beady eyes gleaming.

Hermione fumed at the Marauders' recap of events. They were telling the truth, strictly speaking. Just not nearly all of it.

"Is this true?" Professor McGonagall asked, her eyes drifting from Lupin to Severus, and then back to Lupin.

Lupin, looking uncomfortable, nodded. "Yes, Professor."

Severus merely scowled. Hermione waited for him to defend himself and explain the true order of events, but he continued to repack his bag, ignoring everyone else in the room.

"Very well." Professor McGonagall eyed each of the young men sternly. "Five points from each of you for roughhousing in the lavatory. Mr Snape, you will assist Mr Filch in clearing away this mess. Without the use of magic. Since this must be seen to immediately, you will miss your afternoon classes and be responsible for asking your professors for any homework they may have assigned."

"Yes, Professor," Severus said, still staring at his book bag. He shifted its weight awkwardly, attempting to hold the broken strap together.

"Mr Potter, Mr Black, Mr Lupin, Mr Pettigrew, I suggest that you hurry to your classes before anyone else knocks into you."

"Yes, Professor McGonagall," they chorused, smirking as they left Severus standing in the inch deep water.

Of _course_ they were smirking, Hermione thought bitterly. They'd managed to torment Severus and force him to clean up the mess. _And_ lost only five points each. A veritable bargain.

The bathroom cleared and Severus was left staring at the handiwork of the Gryffindor bullies. By the time he had carefully set his bag on a shelf, out of reach of the water, Argus Filch was careening into the lavatory, moaning at the sight of the trashed room.

"Worse than Moaning Myrtle when she's had a bad day," he groaned, and then fixed a beady glare on Severus. "You'll clean every inch of this room to my satisfaction," he informed him, and Severus nodded dutifully, accepting the mop that the caretaker handed him.

"Ah, well," Dumbledore said brightly. "A little hard work never hurt anyone, did it, Severus?"

Hermione felt the Severus beside her stiffen, and she reflexively put her hand on his arm. Belatedly, she realized that it was his left arm that she'd grasped, and that she was most likely directly over top of his Dark Mark. Which would explain why he was staring at her, rather than at Dumbledore. She swallowed hard but didn't remove her hand. When Severus took a long breath through his nose, she relaxed a little.

"I believe we've seen all that is necessary here," Dumbledore said, seeming to talk to them and ignore them at the same time with the way he refused to acknowledge the events they were witnessing. "Or _almost_ all." He swirled his robe and the same strange sensation that she'd felt when they'd been at Malfoy Manor and it had changed from afternoon to night washed over her. When her stomach settled, she noted that the bathroom was clean and that Severus was gathering his book bag from the shelf he'd placed it on.

It was ruined.

The leather, which had at one point been rather fine, she was sure, was now warped and discoloured in places. The strap was broken, the buckles bent so as to be useless.

"It was my mother's bag," Severus said, and without thinking, Hermione squeezed his arm. "It was from her own days at Hogwarts. A present from her parents, I believe. I was always ashamed to carry a lady's bag, but I couldn't afford anything else."

Young Severus exited the bathroom wearily, book bag clutched in his arms. They followed him through the castle, all the way to the Slytherin dorms, where he attempted to slink through the common room without drawing attention to himself.

Several hours must have passed, Hermione realized, because the common room was largely deserted. In fact, the only two people in the room were Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black. They were occupying the sofa closest to the fireplace, and Hermione half-expected to see them in a clinch of some sort. Instead, though they were sitting close to each other, their only other contact was Narcissa's hand on Lucius' forearm. It was a delicate gesture and matched the young lady perfectly. It was Lucius who surprised her, however. Hermione had known him as an adult and hated him. She'd seen his childhood memories and understood that he'd once been an innocent child. But this version of Lucius…

He was obviously in his seventh year at Hogwarts, judging by his mature physique and strong jaw. He was like the adult Lucius she had known. Except not. The expression on his face when she'd seen him in the Great Hall had been calculating and confident. The face he wore now, when he was alone with Narcissa, was entirely different.

Innocent was pushing it, but Lucius definitely appeared softer that she expected. Not exactly tender, but something akin to it.

She had never stopped to think that it would be possible for him to feel that way.

"Lucius," Narcissa started to say, turning her face to look up into his, but Young Severus' appearance in the common room was marked by the contents unceremoniously ejecting themselves from the ruined book bag.

"Sorry," Severus mumbled, his face flaming as, once again, he scrambled to collect his belongings. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine," Lucius said mildly, and flicked his wand so that the books neatly arranged themselves and flew into the bag.

The kindness seemed to undo the last of Severus' control, and Hermione saw his lower lip begin to tremble.

"Your bag has seen better days," Lucius commented, and Severus was forced to bite his lower lip to control the trembling. "You know," he continued, "Narcissa gave me a new book bag for my birthday recently. Perhaps you would like to use my old one for the time being?"

Severus finally met the older boy's eyes. "I don't need charity," he whispered, and Hermione wondered how long he would be able to hide his tears.

"Good," Lucius said crisply. "Because I am not in the habit of giving it. The bag is merely occupying space in my trunk. If you happen to replace your bag, you may return mine. It makes no difference to me." When Severus didn't reply, Lucius flicked his wand. "_Accio_ Lucius' book bag."

A fine leather bag flew into the room, landing smoothly at Severus' feet. He eyed it mistrustfully.

"You are a Slytherin," Lucius said softly. "When something is offered you, grasp it with both hands and hold on."

Severus nodded, still staring at the bag. It was a handsome bag, Hermione thought. Butter-soft black leather. Fine detail work. Sturdy construction. Unmistakably masculine.

"Well, go on," Lucius drawled. "It's past curfew, and I'd hate to have to take points from a fellow Slytherin."

His movements jerky, Severus seized the bag and bolted for the stairs leading to the boys' dormitory. When he was safely out of earshot, Narcissa leaned close to Lucius, the tip of her nose tracing the line of his ear.

"Very crafty," she complimented him, and though she was whispering, Hermione found that she could hear her plainly. "At least now I know what to get you for your birthday."

Lucius' smile was smug, even if he did squirm a little as Narcissa followed the path her nose had taken with her tongue. "Yes, well, I had to do something, didn't I? Otherwise you might have gotten me a broom cleaning kit, and I rather believe that is what Father has in mind for me."

"That wouldn't do at all," Narcissa conceded. She shifted her body slightly, and Lucius responded immediately, as if they had been in this position many times before and he knew exactly what she wanted. Spreading his legs and leaning against the backrest, he pulled Narcissa onto his lap, facing him.

"I've learned something new tonight," she told him, her voice low and throaty. "Seeing you combine manipulation with kindness is actually quite arousing." She murmured a spell that Hermione couldn't quite make out, and Lucius' robes disappeared, and his shirt unbuttoned. "That's better," she said, and Lucius groaned as she explored his body with mouth and hands.

"Merciful Merlin," Hermione breathed, her face flaming as she watched the scene unfolding with wide eyes. As a prefect she'd interrupted plenty of snogging sessions, but she'd never come across anything even close to as erotic as what she was currently witnessing.

"I'm going to throw up," Draco announced loudly, and Hermione was suddenly reminded that she was not the only voyeur witnessing the personal moment between seventh-year Lucius and Narcissa.

"Yes," Severus said. "Rather." Arms crossed over his chest, he frowned at Lucius. "I can't believe you lied to me about that bag. What were you thinking? You barely even knew me."

Hermione expected a sardonic remark from the quintessential Slytherin in reply, but he was still staring at the couple on the couch. To Hermione's relief, they had not advanced their state of undress any further than when she'd looked away, but from the pleased noises coming from both, she was certain it was only a matter of time.

"What?" Lucius said, still not turning away from the couple. "Oh. You were soaking wet and in tears. It was obvious that you'd been bullied by those miscreants again. Also, I'm not made of stone."

Severus smirked. "Narcissa seems to think you are," he said. "Or at least, that _part_ of you is."

"_That's it_," Draco snapped. "Can we leave now? I'm hardly interested in watching my parents—" he gestured wildly with flapping hands toward the couple, "doing _that_."

"Yes, I do believe it's time we moved on," Dumbledore said. "Don't you agree, Lucius?"

"What?" Lucius asked. He turned away with reluctance, and then looked back again, as if he couldn't stand to look away. "No," he said. "No. Couldn't we stay here, just for a little longer?"

Hermione had seen Lucius Malfoy on his worst behaviour, and also on his best, but she had never heard him plead.

She hoped never to hear it again. It was wrong, somehow, as if he were broken beyond repair.

"I'm afraid not," Dumbledore said gently. Instead of waiting for the others to approach him as had been his wont, the former headmaster of Hogwarts placed his arm around Lucius' shoulders and waited for the others to join him.

"I still use that bag, you know," Severus said, just before they were caught up in the swirl of Dumbledore's unique brand of Apparition.

"As do I," Lucius replied, and if his voice sounded a trifle scratchy, no one commented on it.

Author's Notes:

Thanks, as always, to The Above and Beyond Team of Miss M and Miss B.

Characters from the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling. They are used without permission and not for profit.


	7. Chapter Six

**The Chains We Forge in Life**

**Chapter Six**

Waking in a bed with three fully grown men, Hermione decided, did not lose its sense of peculiarity upon repetition. For the first time since the nightmarish charade had begun, however, she woke to the sound of voices.

"You still miss her," Severus said quietly, and Hermione held her breath, realizing that he was speaking to Lucius. She was listening in on a terribly private conversation, she knew, but she couldn't bring herself to alert the men to the fact that she was awake. Especially since she was quite certain that at least one of the hands resting lightly on her back did not belong to the only wizard in the bed who was actually still asleep.

"Always," Lucius replied, and one of the hands on her back moved to her hair. Whoever the hand belonged to, Hermione decided, was at least intelligent enough not to try to run his fingers through it. _That_ would have ended badly for all concerned.

"I see," Severus replied, and Hermione thought that he rather did. "It has been less than two years," he continued.

"Nineteen months," Lucius interjected. "Nineteen months, eighteen days." He frowned. "Nineteen days now, I suppose."

"The pain will lessen," Severus said, his voice low and controlled. "Though it will never completely disappear."

Silence settled heavily over the bed. Hermione considered feigning waking, but decided against it. Despite the strangeness of being trapped in a ridiculous scenario with three men, the hand in her hair was comforting. As was the arm thrown over her back. And the leg over her feet. And the—

"Draco Malfoy!" Hermione shrieked, no longer caring that she was disturbing everyone on the bed and fairly broadcasting the fact that she hadn't been asleep. "You will remove your hand from my arse this instant!"

"I wondered when you would notice," Severus said, sounding much more amused than Hermione thought he had any right to.

"Five more minutes," Draco mumbled and squeezed the arse he was currently palming, but Hermione shoved him ruthlessly away from her. "Fine," he muttered, shifting gracelessly to a seated position. "But you can't have minded too much. You didn't even hex me."

"Oh, I'll hex you," Hermione threatened and brandished her wand.

"Children," Lucius chided, all evidence of his earlier conversation with Severus erased. "Draco, apologize to Miss Granger. Miss Granger, kindly lower your wand."

"It's a nice arse," Draco said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and appearing completely unaffected by the presence of Hermione's wand only inches from his nose.

Shaking her head, Hermione tucked her wand away. "_You're_ an arse," she muttered, but Draco merely grinned at her.

"Can't argue that," he said cheerfully, apparently fully awake. "Now. Any idea what's going on? Do you think it's possible we're finished?" His hopeful tone was infectious and even though she knew that they couldn't possibly be so lucky, Hermione threw back the covers on the bed in the hope that it was their first step to freedom.

Dumbledore appeared out of thin air and the four occupants of the bed groaned in unison.

"Oh, dear," Dumbledore said, his amusement evident. "I haven't had such a warm welcome since I instituted mandatory staff meetings in the teachers' bath."

Severus shuddered.

"We were hoping that, since you weren't present when we woke, perhaps we were finished with our adventure," Hermione explained.

"Ah," Dumbledore replied, settling himself on the edge of the bed and neatly arranging his chains. "No, I'm afraid we've a ways to go yet."

Hermione was not the only one to sigh.

"After all," he said, eyes twinkling. "I don't believe we've encountered any of yours or Draco's memories. And we wouldn't want to miss out on those, would we?"

Draco grimaced. "It's bad enough I had to see my parents snog. I really, _really_ have no interest in putting my private history on display."

"Completely understandable, my dear boy," Dumbledore said. "Unfortunately…"

Draco pressed his lips together. "Fine. But I really don't think—"

"Oh, hush, Draco," Lucius interrupted. "Severus and I have both lived through it, and I am certain that you will somehow muddle through as well."

"_You_ didn't have to watch your parents befoul the Slytherin common room couch," Draco said petulantly, and Lucius was not quite quick enough to mask the look of utter longing on his face. She had never suspected that his wife's death during the Final Battle had affected him so deeply, Hermione realized with shame. Why had she never considered that he might have been strongly attached to her? No, she had painted him with the tar brush of evil, assuming that he was incapable of any tender emotion.

Which was utterly ridiculous. As awful as Lucius Malfoy had been during the war, it stood to reason that no one person was completely evil, and that he surely had some redeeming qualities. Love for his family appeared to be Lucius'.

Or at least love for Narcissa. She frowned as she sneaked a look at Draco, suddenly concerned about what she might witness of his childhood. Whether he loved his family or not, Lucius Malfoy was not an easy man.

"All right," Dumbledore said, standing up and allowing his chains to rattle and clink as they landed on the floor. "Shall we embark on our next great adventure?"

Hermione's stomach churned with nervous anticipation. She had a gut feeling that Draco would be the next subject, but Dumbledore hadn't actually said so. There was a fifty-fifty chance that they would be hurtling into her own past the moment they touched Dumbledore's robes.

Surprisingly, it was Draco who set her at ease. "Come on, Granger," he said, standing at the side of the bed and reaching for her hand. "How bad can it be?" As he pulled her up and off the bed, he whispered in her ear, "And if it gets nasty, I'll allow you recompense for earlier and you can fondle my arse. As it will distract both of us, I'm willing to take one for the team," he informed her solemnly.

"Perv," she muttered, and shoved him away, though she was laughing as she did so. "As if I'd want to!"

Draco shrugged. "Keep lying to yourself, Granger."

Hermione's retort was lost as the group was caught up in the sensation of Apparition once again.

"Sweet Merlin on a thestral," were the first words Hermione heard when the swirl of spectre Apparition faded and her feet were once again solid beneath her. The fact that it was Draco speaking so crudely was not the surprise; the fact that he was doing anything other than struggling to settle his stomach so soon after arrival was the notable aspect.

"Honestly," he griped. "Another loo? Are we at least in a _girls'_ lav this time? I'm really not in the mood to potentially be scarred by seeing—" He stopped abruptly, the colour draining from his already pale face.

"Drakey!" a familiar voice cried, and Hermione cringed. She'd never been particularly comfortable in the presence of Moaning Myrtle—not since she'd commandeered the ghost's deserted loo to brew an illicit potion. She whirled, expecting to see another Draco. Because surely Myrtle couldn't see them…?

Yet the lavatory appeared to be deserted, and Myrtle was drifting ever closer to the young man at Hermione's side.

"What about my _childhood_?" Draco grumbled under his breath. "We saw Father and his tree house. We saw Severus before he went to Hogwarts—" He stopped abruptly, obviously remembering the awful glimpse into Severus Snape's early years. "But no, we skip right through my childhood to _this_," he finished angrily, gesturing to the room around them. Hermione frowned in confusion. How could Draco possibly know what they were observing when there was no one in the room?

"Aren't you happy to see me, Drakey?" Myrtle pouted, stopping directly in front of him and extending a spectral hand to touch his cheek. "You've not been by for _days_. I was beginning to think you didn't care," she said, her sickeningly sweet voice causing Hermione's skin to crawl.

_A few days?_ Was Draco in the habit of visiting Moaning Myrtle regularly? Or perhaps Myrtle's sense of time was shoddy; it was a common occurrence with ghosts. After a certain number of years, the days seemed to merge together for them. Or so she understood.

"We're not actually here," Hermione said crisply. "In fact, I don't understand how you can see us at all." She tilted her head to the side. "Unless it's because you're a ghost, yourself? We haven't interacted with any other ghosts at Hogwarts, though…"

"Oh," Myrtle said, not bothering to spare a glance toward Hermione, but practically wrapping herself around Draco. "I wondered why you looked so strange." Her eyes lit up. "Are you all ghosts now? Will you be staying in the loo with me?"

"Merlin, I should hope not," Lucius shuddered. He fidgeted with his robe, taking care that the hem did not drag on the cold tile floor. The loo wasn't as disgusting as the one the Marauders had flooded, but Hermione couldn't find fault with his actions—the room was off-putting, and she wasn't eager to make contact with it herself.

Myrtle glanced at Lucius, ready to take offence at his words, and caught sight of Dumbledore. "Oh," she said, her tone dull. "_You're_ here."

Dumbledore smiled genially. "So I am."

Everyone in the room stared at him expectantly, but the three words were apparently the extent of what he planned to say.

"Yes," Hermione said drily. "Unfortunately, he _is_ here. And for some reason, he's taken to dragging us around to various events in our pasts."

"I see," Myrtle said, her eyes narrowing as she studied the former Headmaster of Hogwarts. He hadn't been Headmaster when she'd been in school, but he'd been a professor. Apparently, not one that she'd cared for. "How very interesting," she said, her tone the most thoughtful Hermione had ever heard it. Before Hermione could ask any more questions, however, they were interrupted by the sound of the door swinging open and banging against the wall. Draco groaned, but Myrtle squealed in delight and drifted away from them, toward the newcomer.

A Draco only a few years younger than the one beside Hermione slunk into the room, glancing over his shoulder once before the door swung closed behind him. Sixth year, Hermione guessed, judging by the boy's sharp, prominent cheekbones and rumpled appearance. His clothes appeared to hang off him, and the normally fastidious dresser's shirt was untucked and his sweater askew.

Young Draco ignored the spectre and made straight for the bank of sinks. With a shaking hand he wrenched a tap until a thick stream of cold water burst forth, splashing the tap and counters. He gripped the sides of the sink for a long minute, and then his body began to shake with what Hermione was startled to realize were wracking, silent sobs. When the first choked sound escaped his lips, Draco plunged his hands, then his face, under the stream of water.

She'd witnessed the anger of the men in her life often, but she'd not often seen them cry. Not like this. It did no good to tell herself that Draco wasn't yet a man in this memory, that he was barely a man now. What they had all seen, what they had all dealt with, had made adults of them long before their time, and the figure before her was no child.

Hermione felt her face flame. This was an intensely private moment that she had no business observing, and for once, her natural curiosity was dormant. There were things she didn't need to know. Things she didn't _want_ to know.

"Draco?" Moaning Myrtle's voice was neither the childish pout nor the sickeningly sweet voice that Hermione associated with the ghost. Instead it was timid, and a little curious.

"Not now," Draco choked, his voice still clogged with tears. He stuck his head under the water again, emerging only when he needed to breathe. He was no longer openly crying, but the contortions of his face made it clear that he was not yet out of the woods. When he'd patted his face dry and applied a charm to fix his hair, he slumped on the floor of the loo and closed his eyes. Myrtle drifted to sit directly beside him, her body angled to face him.

"What is it this time?" she asked softly, and placed her hand over his. To Hermione's surprise, Draco didn't recoil. Instead, he groaned.

"Nothing's worked," he said desperately. "_Nothing!_ I don't know how I'm supposed to kill him. Or even if I really am expected to." Eyes still closed, he tilted his head back until it landed with a solid clunk against the wall. "He expects me to fail," he concluded miserably. "And then he'll be free to punish the Malfoys in any way he likes."

Myrtle was silent for a long moment. "What do you think he'll do to you?" she finally asked, her glasses glinting as she shifted, the better to see his face.

Draco shook his head miserably. "If we're lucky, he'll kill us."

Hermione expected Myrtle's usual tirade in reaction to how sensitive she was to the topic of death, but she merely moved again, this time shifting until she was lying on the cold tile floor, her head resting in Draco's lap. Hermione started, remembering the day on the Hogwarts Express when she'd seen Draco in the same position, his head in Pansy Parkinson's lap as she carded her fingers through his hair.

"Being dead isn't so bad," she said eventually.

Draco froze.

"No, really," she said, wriggling a little. Hermione wondered how Draco could stand it—wasn't Myrtle cold? Yet he allowed the contact without a word or flinch, even going so far as to graze her hair once she had settled. "It wasn't as if I were terribly happy when I was alive," she continued, muttering something about that "awful Olive Hornby" and how she couldn't help having acne or glasses. "And maybe you could come visit me," she added shyly. "We could have lots of fun messing with the other students if we're both ghosts!"

Draco's hand stilled as he held it a mere inch above her hair. "No," he said softly. "I don't suppose death would be so terrible."

She nodded encouragingly, and then squirmed until Draco was touching her hair again. It was strange, Hermione thought. Moaning Myrtle hadn't been particularly attractive in life, and dying hadn't changed that. She was Muggle-born. She died specifically _because_ she was Muggle-born. And yet Draco Malfoy was sitting with her, touching her, confiding in her.

It was passing strange.

"I tried to kill myself once," she said dreamily a little later. Draco's hand stilled for a moment and then resumed its movement. "It didn't work, of course, seeing as how I'm already dead, but it really wasn't that difficult. I'm sure it would have worked if I'd been alive. And it wouldn't even have hurt." She paused. "How do you think the Dark Lord will punish you?" she asked, and Hermione could have killed the girl, ghost though she was. How dare she encourage Draco to commit suicide! Just because she died when she was still in the boy-crazy phase of her development and was desperate for companionship was no reason to talk someone into joining her in haunting a girls' loo! Burning with rage, Hermione had already taken a step toward the pair seated on the floor when she saw Lucius flinch. His eyes were fixed on the younger version of Draco, and if Hermione had any remaining doubt that he loved his son, it was erased. Lucius did not have the look of a patriarch who was working out how he would have replaced his heir, but the expression of a man who was watching his life crumble in front of him.

"How would you do it?" Draco asked softly, his voice sounding horrifically empty as it bounced off the tile.

Myrtle's face lit up. "Oh! It's easy!" she said. "You just have to—"

Her explanation was interrupted by the door of the loo bursting open. Hermione watched with wide eyes as Harry Potter skidded to a halt and Draco leapt to his feet. With a sigh, Myrtle floated into a stall, peeking over the top of the door to observe.

The Draco beside Hermione tensed visibly, but no more than Severus Snape did. With growing horror, Hermione realized what she was about to witness. The next moments were a blur of curses, hexes, and jinxes that rattled the walls of the lavatory, burst pipes, and in general terrified Hermione, even though she'd seen worse _and_ she knew how the incident would end. Beside her, Draco, Lucius, and Severus watched the action play out with her. Severus was completely impassive, his face the mask she'd come to expect during her years in his classroom. Draco was tense, keeping his eyes firmly trained on Harry, as if he were a threat to them. And Lucius… Lucius had dropped his haughty veneer to watch the unfolding drama with pride.

Until Harry threw his final curse.

From the moment Hermione had seen the word "Sectumsempra" in Harry's pilfered Potions textbook, she'd known it was dangerous. Her skin had crawled when she'd read the word, and it positively tingled now when she saw its effects. Draco lay in a pool of blood and water, his body slashed beyond from what it could realistically recover.

Beside her, Draco was stiff as a board, his tension rolling off him in waves.

Lucius was wide-eyed, his face pale as he helplessly watched his son bleed.

And Severus was vibrating with the effort of controlling his body.

"I can still feel it," he said through gritted teeth. "Do Unbreakable Vows transcend time? What fresh hell _is_ this?"

Dumbledore, who had tucked himself into a corner of the lavatory immediately upon their arrival, graced them with an enigmatic smile. Before Hermione could berate him for his smug and callous attitude (Honestly! Being dead was no excuse for being rude!), the outer door of the lavatory swung open again, this time admitting a panicked Severus Snape. The scathing glare he directed at Potter before kneeling in the water and blood next to Draco was enough to make Hermione's cheeks flush with shame.

"He didn't know what it would do," she whispered.

On the floor, Draco writhed, and she had to turn away.

"He didn't know!" she protested, louder. She had a feeling, though, that her words would be more convincing if they weren't spoken around the sobs wracking her body. She felt a tentative hand on her shoulder and before she could stop herself, she threw herself into the arms of the man who had been brave enough to offer her comfort. She didn't know who he was, as she refused to open her eyes and risk seeing a bloody Draco and a terrified Harry, but she knew that the scratchy linen of the nightclothes he'd been dressed in absorbed her tears quite well, and that the arms wrapped around her were strong and gentle.

"But I did," Severus said grimly. "I designed the spell knowing full-well what it would accomplish. What I _hoped_ it would accomplish."

"You designed it?" Lucius asked, his voice sounding as if it came from far away. "I'm certain I read about a similar spell. It was in an old and dark tome, mind you. It's long since gone. The original was taken from the Manor when I was little more than a child…"

"Spells With Intent," Severus said, sounding surprised. "Yes, I recall it now. I must have read it as a child—" He stopped abruptly. "You gave me a confiscated dark text?" he growled, and Hermione didn't have to look up to know that the question was directed at Dumbledore. The former headmaster arranged the folds of his robes, the chains clinking against the tile floor. She frowned as she looked at the chains. Was one of them shaped like a book? She hadn't noticed before…

But Professor Snape was singing Draco's healing incantation, and she felt some of the tension drain from her body. She'd always enjoyed listening to Snape lecture. She'd even found guilty pleasure in listening to him berate her fellow students. But his singing voice was in another category all together. She breathed deeply, still not moving from her position in Draco's arms, but moving her head so that she could see the wounds on the younger Draco begin to heal.

"I don't remember any of this," Draco murmured, his breath just touching the top of her head. "I was told Snape healed me, but I didn't realize…"

"Thank you," Lucius said, staring at Draco's bloody body. "Thank you."

Snape acknowledged the statement with a brief, sharp nod.

"Your wife was responsible for Severus' timely arrival. You are aware that the Unbreakable Oath—" Dumbledore said, only to be cut off.

"Fool," Lucius hissed. "Do you not recognize Sacrificial Magic when you see it? Severus healed Draco, but it was by taking a measure of Draco's pain into his own body. Or did you not _read_ the texts with which you gifted Young Severus?"

Dumbledore looked as surprised as Hermione could ever recall seeing him. "I see," he finally said, his attempt at sounding thoughtful and wise falling flat.

"I didn't know _that_, either," Draco said. He shifted so that he could look at Severus, but kept his arms around Hermione, as if he needed the human contact as much as she did. "I didn't realize…"

"You were not meant to," Severus said briskly. "And I believe we have quite exhausted our stay here."

Hermione watched as Professor McGonagall and Headmaster Dumbledore swept into the lavatory. Harry's light reprimand and Severus' subsequent irritation suddenly made much more sense.

"It's a wonder that Harry grew up to have any sense of personal responsibility at all," Hermione muttered. "Honestly! Even Professor McGonagall was in favour of a strong punishment!" She frowned in Dumbledore's direction, but he pretended to busy himself by drifting closer to where Draco still lay on the floor, Professor Snape labouring over him.

"Sacrificial Magic, you say," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "I've not much experience—"

Hermione was not the only one to snort.

"It's rarely practiced," he continued, ignoring them. "In fact, I can't recall—"

"You should," Hermione bit. "You _should_ recall. If I'm not mistaken, Professor Snape also used it when he healed me from Dolohov's attack in the Ministry of Magic." She glanced to Snape for confirmation, but he merely tapped his foot impatiently.

"Ah." Dumbledore stopped his pacing long enough to narrow his eyes at Snape. "I did suspect—"

"You suspected _nothing_," Snape said dismissively. "I used Sacrificial Magic several times during my tenure as Head of Slytherin. Had you suspected I was proficient with it I have no doubt I would have been in greater demand than I already was."

"Using the magic was a substantial risk," Lucius said, moving to stand shoulder to shoulder with his son. Draco stood taller under his father's attention, but kept his arms about Hermione. "There is a reason it is only written about in Dark texts."

"A _calculated_ risk," he said dismissively. "Nothing more. Now, I do believe we have seen all that there is to be seen here. If we could _please_ move on?"

All eyes turned to Dumbledore, who was following the progress of Professor Snape as he carried Draco out of the lavatory and toward the infirmary. "Yes," he said, sounding distracted. "Yes, I suppose—"

"You're not _going_!" Myrtle wailed, sailing over the top of the door of the stall she'd hidden in. "You _can't_ go! The castle's been empty for so long, and no one comes to talk to me. No, no one cares about Moaning Myrtle! Not when there are boring staircases to mend and silly walls to repair! Well, you'll all find time to visit me when I flood the entire—"

"Myrtle," Draco said, and Hermione was shocked to see that he was smiling. Well, the Malfoy version of a smile, at least. The lines on his face had smoothed, and he looked far more relaxed than Hermione thought he should, considering that he had just been forced to relive an uncomfortably close brush with death.

"I'll be back," Draco continued, very carefully not meeting the eyes of anyone else in the room. "I _am_ living at the castle again, you know."

Myrtle regarded him solemnly, as if trying to determine whether or not his promise could be trusted. "Okay," she finally said, indulging in a swooping flight about the room that made Hermione want to duck and cover her head in the hopes that the ghost wouldn't pass through her. "_You've_ kept your word," she said, halting her flight abruptly and hovering mere inches from his face. "Unlike some _others_ I could mention."

Hermione flushed, even though she was quite certain that it had been Harry, and not herself, that Myrtle had tried to convince to return for more visits.

"I'll be back," Draco repeated. "If we ever escape from this nightmare, that is," he added, turning to glare at Dumbledore.

The former headmaster merely shrugged in an expansive gesture that implied he was above concerning himself with such mundane details. As if by mutual agreement, Hermione, Draco, Severus, and Lucius took hold of his robes. The incident they'd witnessed had been unpleasant and there was no hope that the next would be any better, but Hermione couldn't help but to want to hurry it along, whatever it was.

Author's Notes:

Thanks, as always, to The Above and Beyond Team of Miss M and Miss B.

Characters from the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling. They are used without permission and not for profit.


	8. Chapter Seven

**The Chains We Forge in Life**

**Chapter Seven**

"I think you're getting better at this," Hermione said, and then winced when Draco shot her an annoyed look. It was true, though. He didn't look as if the uncomfortable Apparition were putting him in imminent danger of tossing his cookies. No, instead he merely looked absolutely furious upon arriving in a place that looked suspiciously familiar.

"Oh, bugger," Hermione muttered, wondering if they were now reliving _her_ past. She recognized the stately rooms of Malfoy Manor—this nightmare could very easily be either her's or Draco's. They weren't in the room in which Bellatrix had tortured her, though, so it stood to reason that—

"I'm going to kill you," Draco spat. "Has anyone told you that in the last five minutes? No? I am going to _kill_ you!" But instead of lunging toward the aged former headmaster, Draco merely stood stock still, bristling with rage.

"I'll help," Lucius said grimly, and Severus moved to stand closer to his godson. It was a remarkable wall of solidarity, especially from Slytherins who seldom displayed their loyalty, and Hermione had the impression that both Severus and Lucius were well aware of what they were about to witness.

"Watching the Boy Who Just Wouldn't Die nearly kill my son wasn't enough? You go too far," Lucius hissed, his hair crackling and marring his usually impeccable appearance. Before she had time to form a question, however, her attention was drawn by a crowd of wizards in robes and masks sweeping into the room.

She wasn't sure that it was possible for temperature in the room to drop with the influx of people (shouldn't it have _raised_ the temperature?) but the chill that seeped through her was real enough that she tucked her arms around herself and hunched forward as if to make herself smaller.

"They can't hurt you," Draco said, and Hermione wasn't sure if he was saying it for her benefit or for his. "They're not real. Not anymore."

She nodded shakily, mesmerized by the sight of the group of men in their identity-concealing masks. "Cowards," she thought desperately, trying to convince herself that she wasn't horribly unsettled by the reminder of what she had fought so hard to rid the Wizarding world of not so long ago. "Cowards hide behind masks," she repeated aloud, her voice shaky, and then bit her lip, conscious of the fact that each of the three men beside her had donned that particular mask, two of them for years.

"Or those forced into bravery and sacrifice," she amended, knowing that her words were true in differing ways for each of the three. She relaxed slightly at the realization. After all, though some of the Death Eaters were undoubtedly evil, how many others of them had joined out of desperation or a sense of obligation, and regretted it? How many of them were just regular wizards who had made poor choices?

Or was she merely making excuses for the Death Eaters in order to quell her own fears?

"Do not be deceived, Miss Granger," Lucius said. "Even those of us who joined against our will were dangerous. Ruthless, cold-hearted, and unforgiving. There is no excuse, no justification."

Mr Malfoy's words were a dash of cold water in an already frigid room, but both Professor Snape and Draco stepped closer to her, flanking her.

"He is correct," Severus said. "Fear and guilt can compel a person to commit atrocities they would never consider otherwise. But the fact remains that we are quite safe. They will not harm you, Miss Granger."

"Severus is quite correct," Dumbledore interjected cheerfully. "And if you'll focus your attention on the scene at hand…"

Hermione turned a narrow-eyed glare on her former headmaster, anger boiling over at being manipulated into watching what would no doubt end up being a horrific scene. Really, how could a meeting of Death Eaters be anything _but_ horrific? And though they'd only seen wizards in masks and robes, if it was a meeting of Death Eaters, didn't it stand to reason that Voldemort would arrive shortly? Another involuntary shiver wracked her body and, without thinking, she reached out, snagging the sleeve of the robe of the one wizard who had not moved to stand beside her.

Years of breeding coming to the fore, Lucius immediately acquiesced to her insistent tug and joined their huddle, towering protectively over all three of them. Though he did not deign to speak, his presence was reassuring, as was Severus' solid bulk behind her, and Draco's hand on the small of her back.

It was bloody unfair. She'd _fought_ the war. They _all_ had. And now they were reliving it. What was Dumbledore playing at? What good could possibly come of opening old wounds and reminding them of the horrors they'd worked so hard to overcome? The Wizarding world was moving on, albeit sluggishly and with many setbacks along the way. Why take them back? Why remind them?

Her mind skittered over the similarities to the Dickens tale. Every scene the spectres had shown to Scrooge had served a purpose. For the life of her, though, she could not think what she was supposed to be seeing. If they were following the story, should they not be learning something from their past? Was the path that they were on so horrific that it would lead to terrible events in the future?

She frowned, trying to work it out. No matter how she added it up, the numbers didn't reach a reasonable sum. From what she had gleaned from the memories shown to Lucius, Severus, and Draco, they _were_ on the right path now. They'd overcome almost insurmountable obstacles to be where they were today—rebuilding the future of the world, living in peace with those around them.

Surely that was a good thing?

And if it were not a good thing, if the decisions they were currently making really were leading to a catastrophic future… Well, she could hardly counsel them to make poor decisions instead! What was she to do? Urge them to renew their prejudice and genocide?

No. In good conscience, she couldn't. They'd made good decisions, and she couldn't see her way to recommending that they do anything but stay on their current path.

So be it.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she took a deep breath and boldly studied the group of Death Eaters congregated in the room. Lucius, Severus, and Draco were right. They couldn't harm her, couldn't harm any of them. And she'd be damned if she let this memory, no matter what it was, no matter what misguided purpose it was intended to serve, upset any of the former Death Eaters currently attempting to alleviate her fears.

Back straight, head held high, she moved to stand directly between her fellow travellers and the Death Eaters.

_She_ might be the only Muggleborn in the room, but _they_, she suspected, were the ones in need of protection.

"I do not want to see this," Lucius said, his right hand clutching at his left forearm. "Not again. I—"

"It will be fine, Father," Draco said quietly, his voice filled with conviction. "It is what it is. We cannot change the past, and I am tired of fearing it."

Lucius opened his mouth as if to argue but then snapped it closed, huffing in frustration. There was a flurry of activity at the entrance to the room, and Hermione shivered as the temperature dropped once again. In a flurry of darkness, Lord Voldemort swept into the room.

"Very good. All present and accounted for," he hissed.

Hermione stared at him, refusing to be intimidated. It wasn't the first time she'd seen him—she had, after all, had quite a good view of him during the Final Battle. But it was somehow different, more personal, seeing him interact with the Death Eaters.

"The old fool refuses to relinquish the school to me," he continued. "I require Hogwarts to be under my control, and he knows this. By delaying it, he only places himself and his precious students in greater peril."

The Death Eaters made quiet noises of agreement, though Hermione had the suspicion that this was a practiced response, rather than an expression of actual support for his plan.

"I fear that I will be forced to use a student to bring my plan to fruition," Voldemort continued, trying to sound as if the idea pained him. It was a terrible attempt that fooled no one, and Hermione wondered why he even bothered trying. Did he actually have a conscience that he was attempting to appease? It seemed unlikely. Perhaps it merely fit with the image he chose to portray.

"My Lord, surely I can be of use to you?"

Hermione whipped to face the speaker. She'd known that Severus was a Death Eater, of course. But to see him in the mask, and to hear him offer his help… No matter the fact that she knew where his true loyalties lay, it was still disconcerting.

"I am afraid not," Voldemort said, and she wondered if he were now practicing his sympathetic voice. "If all goes to plan you will be the next Headmaster of Hogwarts, and that role will not be enhanced by an accusation of murder."

"Murder, my Lord? I understood you thought to charge a student with finding a way to allow Death Eaters access to the school…" Lucius' voice trailed off, as if he realized speaking had not been in his best interest.

"You are quite right, Lucius. We should not speak of murder just yet," Voldemort agreed. "I do think, however, that your idea of a student paving the way for my loyal servants to enter Hogwarts is quite ingenious. I assume that you have your son in mind for the task? Wonderful! Call him in, won't you?"

"My Lord," Lucius stammered. "I—he is not yet a Death Eater," he finished.

"A problem most easily remedied." Voldemort waved his bony hand impatiently. "Well, Lucius? Call the boy! Or should I send Bellatrix for him?"

"I'll fetch him myself," Lucius said, and hurried from the room. Hermione glanced back at the others, wondering if they were intended to follow him, but before she could voice her question Dumbledore waved his arm and the room shimmered briefly. Without needing to touch his robes, Hermione found they had been transported to an opulent bedroom.

"You have been summoned," Lucius was saying to Draco, who was scrambling to his feet, obviously having been lounging on his bed.

"Summoned?" Draco questioned, swallowing hard. "But—"

"We have very little time," Lucius snapped. "He has summoned you, and you must come immediately." He paused. "And you must prepare yourself."

Draco's pale complexion whitened even further. "Father?"

Lucius closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose. "I do not know his complete plan," he said, "but…" He pushed up the sleeve of his robe, revealing a dark, writhing tattoo."This," he said, repeating the words that his mother had said to him so many years ago, "whatever else it may be, is a mark of love and sacrifice in the Malfoy family. It is a mark of putting the good of the family above all else, and it is something to be proud of, even as we hold it close to our hearts and share it with no others."

Draco backed away in horror. "No," he whispered. "No!" he repeated, his voice vibrating with a mixture of terror and anger.

"You have no choice," Lucius informed him, his tone grim. "Come, before he sends Bellatrix in search of us."

Draco shuddered at the mention of his aunt. "Why? Why does he want me now? I'm not of age," he asked, even as he took a hesitant step toward the door.

Lucius pressed his lips together. "The Dark Lord will explain what is required of you."

Draco swallowed hard.

"It will not be easy."

He nodded.

"But you must do as he asks," Lucius said, taking on a desperate tone. "You must accomplish what he sets for you to do, no matter how… unpleasant. Now, come," he said, rubbing a forearm that Hermione guessed was tingling. "We try his patience."

Draco nodded, following his father from the room.

Another flick of Dumbledore's arm, and they were back in the original room.

"If the old bat has been making us touch his robes for no good reason," Severus began, but stopped abruptly when he observed his godson kneeling before the Dark Lord, looking terribly young and pale.

"Merlin," he muttered. "It is worse the second time around."

"Only because you know the consequences," Dumbledore supplied cheerfully. "When this occurred the first time, it was nameless dread you were experiencing, I should think. Fear of the unknown, of an uncertain future. Now that you know what came of this…"

Severus glared at him. "Yes. I'd figured that out for myself, thank you very much."

"Just trying to be of use," Dumbledore claimed, holding up both hands before him. His robes shifted with the movement, and Hermione tracked the length of chains still wrapped about him. Was one of the links a Death Eater mask? she wondered, squinting. The hollow eyes of the mask stared back at her, unblinking.

The ceremony, such as it was, was mercifully short, with Voldemort speaking only a few words, and those in Parseltongue. The moment when Draco staggered, his face contorted in pain, seemed to last significantly longer, though in reality she supposed it was less than a minute that his body tensed, quaking with the pain of the foreign mark being branded onto his body. Perhaps being branded even onto his soul, she thought, suspecting that the agony he experienced was not merely physical.

When Draco was commanded to rise, he did so, wobbling only slightly.

"You are a credit to your family," Voldemort hissed. "Not all can stand after taking the Mark. Your parents, I am sure, are proud of you."

It was strange wording, Hermione thought. For surely only Lucius was present? It had been proven that Narcissa, whatever else she had done, had never taken the Mark herself. And then she saw what she had previously missed. Two figures emerged from the shadows, one confident and cruel, the other cowed and cringing.

Narcissa and Bellatrix Black.

Narcissa, however, straightened immediately when she saw her son. "Draco," she breathed, and stepped toward him, only to be pulled back by her sister with a firm tug of her hair. Draco lurched toward her, only to be restrained when Voldemort pointed one long, bony finger at him, forcing him to remain where he was.

"See that you carry out my instructions," the Dark Lord hissed. "It would be a shame for such a… loving family to be ruined." He pointed again, and this time Draco was flung fifteen feet across the room, where he landed in a heap at his mother's feet. He rose quickly, and very correctly offered his arm to Narcissa. She grasped it, but only after glancing down at the mark prominently displayed by his rolled sleeve.

Hermione had always considered Narcissa Malfoy to be beautiful. Pale and cold, perhaps, but undeniably beautiful. Watching her expression now, though, Hermione knew that she would never see her as anything other than utterly breath-taking.

The flash of fire in her eyes, the brief hint of colour in her cheeks. Oh, she hid it well, Hermione thought. Voldemort had already turned his back to the Malfoy family and was imparting more of his rhetoric to his loyal followers. There was likely a Death Eater or two still watching them, but Narcissa covered her flash of spirit so quickly that she doubted any of them would have even registered what they were seeing.

Draco, the Draco beside her, knew, though.

She felt it in the way his body stiffened and in the way he lifted his chin.

The Draco in the memory knew it as well.

"Mother," he whispered, and Hermione thought she'd never heard so much emotion imbued in a single word. Pain. Regret. Terror. Love.

"We're done here," Lucius said roughly and turned to Dumbledore, his eyes blazing with a fire entirely different than his late wife's. "Do you hear me, old man? _We're done here._"

Dumbledore dragged his eyes away from the scene before them. "Yes," he said, sounding a little sad himself. "Yes, I believe we are." Shaking off his melancholy with a shrug of his shoulders, he held out his arms for them to grasp. Smiling brightly, he said, "I can't wait to see where we go next! After all," he said, winking in Hermione's direction. "I hear there's no place like home."

And just as Hermione had been certain that their last trip was going to be into Draco's past, she knew without a doubt that it was her own memories that were about to be exploited next.

Author's Notes:

Thanks, as always, to The Above and Beyond Team of Miss M and Miss B.

Characters from the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling. They are used without permission and not for profit.


	9. Chapter Eight

**The Chains We Forge in Life**

**Chapter Eight**

_There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home._

Hermione stared at the door of her childhood home and reminded herself that she had happy memories of her home. Happy memories. Not horrible, angst-filled, death and mayhem type memories.

There was absolutely no reason for her to dread opening that door. Happy memories. And besides, they had already witnessed the truly horrific pasts of three men. Surely they were due some happy memories! Perhaps a childhood birthday party? Yes. She remembered a particularly fun birthday when she'd turned seven and her parents had allowed her to purchase as many books as she could carry. And then they'd returned home and her mother had revealed a cake that looked like a stack of books. Best. Birthday. Ever! It was entirely possible that they were here to witness that.

Or not.

The streetlights went out, one by one, and Hermione, Draco, Lucius, and Severus were left in the dark, standing on the front step of her childhood home.

"A Deluminator," Hermione whispered, recalling a story Harry had been told about the night he'd been delivered to the Dursleys. She'd seen Ron's Deluminator in action, of course, but seeing it here, on a deserted street, brought to mind Harry's story.

"Very good, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said. "Five points to—" He stopped abruptly and they all followed his train of sight. Walking toward them was Dumbledore as he would have looked perhaps ten years ago.

"When did you visit my parents?" Hermione wondered aloud, and then fell silent when the Dumbledore with the Deluminator paused and stared directly at them, a curious expression on his face.

"Can he see us?" she whispered, somehow feeling as if she ought to hide.

"I think not," Spectre Dumbledore mused. "I don't remember seeing a ghost of myself at any point in my life, although there were several times I felt… something. Well," he said, giving his head a shake. "No matter."

They watched as Dumbledore finished putting out the last of the lights and then stepped toward the house. He cast a spell on himself and seemed to melt even further into the darkness.

"A Concealment charm," Hermione guessed. "But why can we still see you?"

Severus crossed his arms over his chest. "I assumed it was because his loathsome visage has been permanently imprinted on my corneas." He raised his eyebrows. "No?"

"Ah, Severus," Dumbledore said cheerfully, his chains clanking as he attempted to place his arm around him. "Such a way with words you have. But I assume that you are able to see me because there would be little point to this memory if you could not."

Hermione watched as the younger Dumbledore waved his hand over the door and silently opened it, slipping inside the darkened house.

"What are you doing?" she asked, frowning. "If you came to talk to my parents, why would you Disillusion yourself and break in?" Her frown deepened. "And it was Professor McGonagall who came to explain to my parents about me being a witch and attending Hogwarts. I didn't realize that you had ever—"

Dumbledore swirled his robe and she found herself in her own bedroom, staring down at a much younger sleeping version of herself.

"I'm only about eight years old here!" she exclaimed. "Why would you—"

She gasped in horror when the younger Dumbledore raised his wand over the sleeping girl and whispered a spell.

"You _bastard_," she said, her eyes widening when she realized what he was doing. "How _could_ you?"

"I didn't catch the spell," Lucius said, his brow furrowing. "What did he do, Miss Granger?"

But his question was answered as young Hermione shifted in her sleep. Even as they watched, her two front teeth slowly extended into the feature that Hermione had been known for until she'd managed to convince Madam Pomfrey to correct it.

"My parents were horrified," Hermione said slowly. "They're dentists, you know." In response to Lucius and Draco's blank expressions, she explained. "They heal teeth."

"Ah." Lucius nodded.

"They couldn't understand how it seemed to happen overnight." She cocked her head to the side and watched as younger Hermione twisted in her sleep, her long hair spreading over the pillow. "They took x-ray after x-ray. I slept with a mouth guard for years. They just couldn't understand how it had happened. I couldn't have cared less at first. They were only teeth, after all. I didn't even notice them unless someone mentioned them. At least until Spring Break was over."

She reached out a hand and attempted to smooth away the strands of hair on sleeping Hermione's face. Had she ever really been that young, Hermione wondered? That innocent?

"The children at my primary school apparently spent more time looking at other people than they did reading," she continued grimly. The memories were old, and she thought she'd dealt with them, but knowing that the teasing could have been avoided opened the old wounds again.

"Why?" she questioned, whirling to face Dumbledore. "What possible reason could you have had for—" She stopped abruptly, her jaw slack. "You know," she said, speaking through clenched teeth, "It's a good thing that I just saw Draco and Severus' messed up childhoods, because I know that mine was a piece of cake compared to theirs. But honestly! Did you really think that the only reason I'd be friends with Harry and Ron was if I had no self-confidence?"

Dumbledore glanced down at the sleeping Hermione. Younger Dumbledore was still there, studying the results of his spell. "I knew if I didn't, shall we say, do something to alter the course of your path, you would be placed in Ravenclaw," Dumbledore admitted. "As it was, I came very close to over-shooting the mark. The Sorting Hat never fails to remind me that both you and Harry would have been viable candidates for Slytherin, were it not for your bloodlines."

Hermione closed her eyes. She'd wanted him to deny it. He had been a headmaster, for heaven's sake! He'd been touted as one of the greatest champions of equal rights the Wizarding world had ever seen. And she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she was being unforgivably petty. After all, in the grand scheme of things, what were two buckteeth?

But it rankled.

She looked down at her sleeping self and her heart ached at the terrible teasing she knew was waiting for her.

Severus cleared his throat. "Do you remember what I said to you the day Draco cursed you?"

Hermione ground her teeth together as she recalled the horrible feeling of her teeth elongating even further, extending past her mouth and grazing her chin. Yes, she remembered. She remembered every cruel taunt of which she'd been the recipient over the years.

"I told you that I saw no difference," he continued. "At the time, I suspect that I rather made matters worse for you."

Her teeth clenched more tightly and she forced herself to relax. After all, her parents would hardly wish for her to inflict more dental problems on herself.

"It was, however, the truth," Severus continued, and Hermione rather wished that he would just shut up. She liked him now, had done ever since she realized he was just as invested as she was in restoring Hogwarts to its former glory. She'd forgiven him for the callous attitude he'd displayed during her school years, and she really didn't want to dredge up old wounds. Why was he insisting on it?

"What I should have specified," Severus continued, "is that you are so much more than your physical appearance that even two ridiculously huge front teeth could not detract from what makes you _you_." He shrugged. "It was a compliment."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "If that's your idea of compliment, Severus, I'd hate to be insulted by you," she retorted. Her words had lost their bite, however. Severus Snape might be a snarky git, but he rarely lied or placated people with meaningless compliments. The memory of the awful curse was still unpleasant, but it lost a little of its sting.

"You could grope my arse now if it would help," Draco offered, and turned to offer her his backside. Looking over his shoulder, he said, "I don't mind in the slightest."

"You wish," Hermione snorted, giving him a solid push away from her. Her eyes, however, had other ideas and lingered on the area in question. It was completely unfair, she thought, that even in a ridiculous nightshirt his rear was obscenely attractive. And it wasn't at all fair of him to bring up the arse-groping he'd originally offered after he'd unknowingly accosted her in his sleep.

"Maybe later," Draco compromised, looking far too amused, as if he knew that she was actually almost halfway tempted to take him up on his offer. In front of his father, no less! Obviously all the recent jumping through time and memory was addling her mind. Hermione forced herself to look away, returning her focus to her childhood bedroom. A wave of nostalgia washed over her—she'd loved her room with its overflowing bookcases and cheery yellow walls. It hadn't really mattered that she'd never had close friends, not when she was so perfectly content to stay home with her many books to keep her company.

And then it was too much, and she wasn't thinking about Draco's backside or her complete set of Sherlock Holmes.

"Can we leave?" she demanded, turning to face Dumbledore. "Please? I don't suppose that my teeth are going to grow any longer."

Lucius raised an eyebrow in response to her sharp tone, but she didn't look at him. She didn't look at anyone other than Dumbledore, because she couldn't. Their curiosity, or worse, their sympathy, was not something she wanted to face.

"But, Miss Granger," Dumbledore protested, unfazed by her request. "I thought that you would be pleased to have the opportunity to acquaint the Malfoys with such a charming Muggle home as your own."

Hermione considered mentioning that they'd already visited Severus' Muggle home, but she supposed that no one, especially not Severus, would categorize Spinner's End as charming.

"He's obviously not finished tormenting you here," Severus said, his eyes roaming over her bookcase and greedily taking in the titles. "I'm certain that with a little ingenuity we can find a way to read these books and—Miss Granger, _really_. Nancy Drew?"

"I was _eight_!" Hermione protested. "And I preferred Trixie Belden, but—" She stopped abruptly. Her mother hadn't allowed her to keep the original edition Trixie Belden books in her bedroom. They'd belonged to Hermione's great aunt and had been put back into storage when she had left to attend Hogwarts. And if they'd been put into storage then it was entirely possible that— No. She tamped down on the hope before it could take root. There was no guarantee. And even if she could locate them, what good would it do? It certainly wouldn't bring back—

"Oh, look!" Dumbledore said, hovering over Hermione's round-mirrored vanity. "A silver brush, comb and mirror! My mother had a set just like—"

"Don't," Hermione said sharply, crossing the room to stand between him and the dresser. She hadn't expected to feel such a strong reaction, but the very idea of him putting his spectral hands on the items, the heirlooms, made her head pound.

Dumbledore turned his attention away from the brush and toward her, his expression the picture of innocence. "Of course, Miss Granger."

"Hermione?" Draco asked, moving to join her in standing between the dresser and Dumbledore.

"Time to move along," Dumbledore interrupted cheerfully. He twitched his cloak, the chains around him grating ominously. Reluctant to touch any part of him, Hermione turned away, but not before she spotted a link of the chain that bore a curious resemblance to the dentistry implements that her parents had taught her about when she was only a toddler.

"For what it's worth," Draco whispered in her ear, "I think you have a lovely smile."

She looked up sharply, expecting him to be staring back at her. Instead, she followed his line of sight and saw that he was looking at the sleeping, eight-year-old Hermione who was, indeed, smiling, her two front teeth prominently displayed. And just like that, the tension she'd been carrying since she had seen the spell the younger Dumbledore had cast drained out of her. Yes, she thought, smiling herself as she looked down at the sleeping girl, she _did_ have a lovely smile.

Before she could respond to Draco, the room began to swirl and Hermione realized that they were being swept away yet again. And since they weren't touching Dumbledore's robes, it was most likely to another room in the house. Which made no sense whatsoever. What else could he possibly want to show them here?

"Mind the couch," Lucius said lightly, and Hermione saw that, once again, Apparition had not agreed with Draco. Leaning over the back of the old and worn sofa that had been a part of the Granger's living room for as long as she could remember, he looked as if he was once again in danger of being sick.

"If I make it through this, I will never let anyone Side Along Apparate me again. _Ever_," he groaned.

"Is it just Side Along Apparition?" Hermione inquired, "or do you have trouble with regular Apparition as well? I don't recall you having a difficult time passing the Apparition test…"

"It's just Side Along. Well, that and Floo travel. And port key. I never did take to that very well, either." Still holding to the back of the couch, he straightened and ran his hand through his hair.

"I should think not," Lucius agreed. "Miss Granger, I can't even begin to tell you the number of times we had to clean Draco up and apologize to whomever we were visiting."

Draco flushed at the reminder. "It's better now," he insisted. "I just don't do well with multiple trips. I find that—" He stopped speaking abruptly, his attention fixed on a point behind Hermione. "Are those your—"

Hermione whipped around and saw her parents coming through the front door of their home.

"Mom?" she whispered, her eyes wide. "Dad?"

Her parents, of course, didn't respond.

Hermione stood, frozen, her hand over her mouth, and watched as they went about the daily business of coming home from work. It was a ritual she'd seen many times over the years, though she hadn't realized that she'd paid so much attention to the details. Somehow, though, she knew that her mother would kick off her shoes before doing anything else, and that her father would drop his keys in a glass bowl next to the coat rack. They'd bought the bowl at a glass factory in Italy, Hermione remembered, when on vacation when she was ten. Next, Mr Granger took Mrs Granger's coat, hanging it carefully in the closet and then tossing his own onto the coat rack.

"I thought we'd have the leftover soup for supper," Mrs Granger said. "And I picked up rolls at the bakery yesterday."

"Sounds wonderful," Mr Granger said, loosening his tie. "And maybe some wine with supper." Grinning, he put his arm around his wife and brushed his lips across hers.

"Definitely wine," Mrs Granger agreed, laughing and pushing him away so she could put the soup in the microwave. Draco and Lucius flinched at the piercing beeping of the machine, and then shrugged sheepishly when Hermione offered a distracted explanation, likening the device to a reheating charm.

"Ah, soup," Dumbledore said wistfully. "I do, upon occasion, miss taking meals in the Great Hall."

Before the Grangers had properly settled in to their meal, however, the companionable silence was broken by the sound of tapping on the window. It took the Grangers a moment to identify the source of the sound, and they shared a look of surprise before Mr Granger opened the window to admit a small, non-descript Owl.

"What's this?" he murmured, placing his hand on the Owl's head and smoothing his feathers in a practiced, comfortable manner that told Hermione he'd done this before. "Have you flown all the way from Scotland again?"

The Owl gave a muted hoot, as if it knew that it was in Muggle territory and needed to keep a low profile.

"Any bacon left over from breakfast?" he asked, handing the Owl a bit of his roll. "I imagine that he could use a bit of something before heading back out."

The Owl hooted substantially louder, and Hermione hid a smile. It seemed that her father and the Owl had similar tastes in food.

"Another letter from Hermione?" Mrs Granger asked, setting a slice of bacon on the table near the Owl and backing away quickly. Mrs Granger, it seemed, was not as comfortable with fowl in the house as her husband was.

"Mmmm," Mr Granger agreed, reading the parchment. "She says she's recovering nicely after that snake bite," he summarized.

_Snake bite?_ Hermione mouthed, frowning. She'd never written to her parents about a snake bite; she was certain of it. Mostly because she'd never been bitten by a snake.

"Well, it _has_ been a week," Mrs Granger reminded him. "I just can't get over how quickly magic can heal common ailments." Pointing with her spoon, she said, "And you worried about sending Hermione away to school! From what I can tell, she's safer there, with all those spells and whatnot, than she could ever be here."

"I wasn't the only one with misgivings," he retorted, but his tone was mild and his expression indulgent. "But I agree. We made the right decision allowing Hermione to go to Hogwarts. Now, where do you think we should take our little witch this summer? Switzerland?"

"No," she said, thoughtfully. "I was thinking Paris. Hermione's at the age now when I suspect she'll appreciate the romance of the city as much as she'll appreciate the museums."

Hermione's eyes widened. "We went to Paris after my second year." Her eyes grew even wider and she whirled to face Dumbledore. "You told them I was bitten by a snake?" she asked, and gave him a solid push to the chest. She couldn't budge him, of course, as her hands slipped through his ethereal form, but she didn't care. "I wasn't bitten by a snake! I was _petrified_! By a _basilisk_! I was in a coma for _months_, not a _week_! You must have written to them in my name! How _could_ you!" With each emphasized word, she gave him another push.

"Now, Miss Granger," he said, holding up his hands and taking an unnecessary step backward with each shove.

"No!" she said. "No! I won't! You can't think that you'd get away with—"

Still moving backward, as if propelled by the force of her anger alone, Dumbledore stumbled. As he threw out his arms to steady himself, his robes swirled, and they all felt the tug of Apparition.

Author's Notes:

Thanks, as always, to The Above and Beyond Team of Miss M and Miss B.

Characters from the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling. They are used without permission and not for profit.


	10. Chapter Nine

**The Chains We Forge in Life**

**Chapter Nine**

"Sweet Salazar," Draco groaned, and promptly deposited his most recent meal in the ornamental vase her mother had kept on the dining room table for as long as Hermione could remember. She stared at him in disbelief, her rage of only seconds ago forgotten. This had to have been one of their shortest Apparitions since they'd begun this crazy journey, and he chose this time to throw up? In one of the ugliest vases known to man?

"Delayed Apparition Sickness," Lucius explained, watching as his son retched violently. "It can sometimes strike after multiple Apparitions in too close a time frame."

His explanation was concise, informative, and completely detached. Did the man not realize that his son was in distress?

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Hermione exclaimed, and pushed through the group of statue-like wizards to stand beside Draco. Nose wrinkled, she let her hand hover over him for a moment before allowing it to rest on the small of his back as he remained bent over at the waist. When his stomach settled, he took in great gulps of air.

It was strange, she thought, to see his shoulders tremble. To see him in a weakened state. Draco, apparently, didn't care for it either and took a step away from her, effectively removing her hand from where it had been resting on his back. The strength of the sting she felt at his rejection surprised her. They'd been friendly for several months as they'd worked on restoring Hogwarts, but they hadn't been particularly close. For him to be uncomfortable with her touch was reasonable, though she could admit that it pricked her pride, especially since he'd made a point of holding her, comforting her, in Moaning Myrtle's lavatory.

He stood quietly for a moment, obviously still fighting the effects of the apparition sickness. When he turned to face her, she saw his sheepish expression and realized that he hadn't rejected her, he'd merely fallen victim to misplaced male pride.

Well. She hadn't let Harry or Ron get away with that sort of thing, and she had no intention of making an exception for Draco. Threading her arm through his and tugging him back to the group, she faced Dumbledore and her fears head on.

"What next?" she demanded. "We've seen me sleep. We've seen my parents eat. Are we really here now to watch my parents do crossword puzzles?"

Because, in fact, that was exactly what Mr and Mrs Granger were doing. They were seated on the comfortable living room furniture, Mr Granger in his recliner and Mrs Granger on a love seat, both with pencils poised over their puzzles.

"I believe your mother is attempting a Sudoku puzzle," Lucius corrected her, and she gaggled for a brief moment, wondering when the sheltered pure blood had become familiar with the mathematical game. "What? Sudoku provides an excellent mental distraction when one is attempting to clear one's mind."

Hermione's jaw dropped as she pictured Lucius scrambling to get in a quick game of Sudoku before being called to face Voldemort. Blinking to rid herself of the unsettling image, she turned back to Dumbledore. "Well?" she pressed.

She told herself that it wasn't fear that kept her from looking at her parents. Or guilt. No, she was just frustrated and impatient. That was why her eyes were resolutely fixed on Dumbledore instead of on the image of her peaceful parents experiencing yet another peaceful evening in their home. From the quick glance she'd had of them, she could tell that they were a few years older than they'd been in the vision of them in the kitchen. Her fifth year, at least. Maybe sixth?

This wouldn't do. This wouldn't do at all. Forcing her thoughts away from her parents, she poked a finger in Dumbledore's ethereal robes. "Well?" she repeated. But Dumbledore didn't even have the courtesy to look at her. Instead, he was staring at a point over her shoulder.

Towards her parents.

With a sigh of defeat, Hermione turned to follow his gaze.

"Again?" she asked. Because, just as he'd appeared in her childhood bedroom and in the Granger's kitchen, a slightly younger Dumbledore was now standing behind the couch, his wand trained on the Grangers.

"What on earth are you—" Hermione started to ask, and then stopped when she recognized the wand movements and incantation.

"An Imperius Curse?" she gasped, and then frowned. No, Imperius Curse wasn't quite accurate. There were other movements, other words, that were strangely familiar, and yet…

"A modified Imperiused Memory," she breathed, impressed despite herself.

"A most simplistic way of putting it, but yes," Dumbledore agreed, and if he looked a little smug, Hermione thought that he might actually be justified. She'd never seen anything like the spell he was performing, which most likely meant that he'd developed it himself.

That would also explain, she thought grimly, why he hadn't been brought up on charges for what was obviously a mind-tampering spell. If he'd designed it himself, the Ministry wouldn't recognize the spell as anything Dark.

"But what were you hoping to accomplish?" Hermione asked. "Or were my parents just Muggles on whom to experiment?"

"Oh, not hardly," Dumbledore said, cheerfully ignoring her insult. "No, my purpose in placing them under that spell was entirely to protect them."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" she inquired, though what she really wanted to do was to leave the living room, the house, the bloody neighbourhood even, and never return.

"Yes. You see, I was given to understand," and here he made a slight nod in Severus' direction, "that your parents were on Voldemort's list. In order to give them a fighting chance, I made it impossible for them to be Imperiused or otherwise manipulated by memory charms." And he looked so pleased with himself that Hermione didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "It was drawing close to the end of your sixth year, you see, and I knew that you and young Harry and Ronald were about to embark on a dangerous mission." Looking down at his arm, as if to remind them of the black curse that had killed him, he said, "I knew they would move higher up Voldemort's list as soon as you made your move. Protecting your parents was one of the last things I did before Harry and I set about retrieving that loathsome Horcrux."

Sure enough, the left arm of the Dumbledore placing the spell on her parents hung loosely at his side, the blackened fingertips contrasting with his cheerful robes.

"You made them resistant to mind-altering spells," Hermione said slowly, frowning. "That can't be right! I—" She stopped abruptly. She hadn't talked about it in over a year, not since Harry had caught her crying one night shortly after the Final Battle.

"You what?" Dumbledore asked, curious, and she realized that it was possible that he didn't know what she'd done. Or tried to do. After all, he'd been dead at the time. Still, that seemed like a poor excuse for what she now expected had led to, or at least directly contributed to, her parents' deaths.

"I removed their memories of me," Hermione said, her voice brittle. "And planted the desire for them to move to Australia."

It was Dumbledore's turn to blink in astonishment. "My dear," he said, and then stopped. "I rather wish I'd thought of that," he admitted.

"But it worked!" Hermione insisted. "I was certain that it worked! I researched, and practiced, and they acted as if it worked!"

"Yes," Dumbledore said, absently stroking his beard. "They would have."

Hermione threw her hands in the air. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Part of the spell was designed so that the Grangers would appear to have succumbed to any spell placed on them," Lucius surmised. "And, no, Miss Granger, I had nothing to do with this debacle. It merely stands to reason."

He was right. If Death Eaters thought that they had successfully Legilimized the Grangers, they might let them go instead of killing them.

"So when I thought I was removing their memories of me and planting the desire to move to Australia…" Hermione's voice trailed off.

"You took their memories?" Severus asked.

Hermione bit her lip and then nodded. There had been no censure in the question, merely a desire to understand the situation.

"I had no choice," she said desperately, the need to defend herself nearly choking her. "I was going on the run with Harry and Ron and I couldn't protect them and I knew that Voldemort would try to get information out of them and—"

"Breathe, Miss Granger," Lucius said, and Hermione realized that her chest was aching, as if she weren't getting nearly the oxygen that she required. When she'd taken a few shaky breaths, he continued. "It was a viable plan," he said, "and it might well have worked."

"Except it didn't," she said bitterly. "I assumed that the memory charm failed; that it lost potency after they reached Australia. I thought that they must have returned, and that was when…" She stopped, unable to speak the words.

They'd been close. So close to victory. As best as she could determine, it had happened the day before the Final Battle. Word hadn't reached her until several days later, what with the chaos of the destruction of Hogwarts. But the Ministry Owl had eventually found her, delivering a scroll with the news that her parents' home had been burned to the ground, with her parents inside. Suspected Death Eater activity was never proven.

It had been easy to keep it quiet, Hermione remembered. She'd been grateful at the time—she had been happy not to have to deal with the newspaper articles, the well-meaning but insensitive advice, the pitying looks. But now she wondered. She wondered if carrying the burden alone had really been the right decision. She'd told Harry eventually, and she suspected that he had told Ron, but it had never become a topic for casual conversation. When she was regularly invited to the Burrow for holidays and special occasions, it was never mentioned that she had no other place, aside from Hogwarts, to go.

Would she have recovered from the pain, loss, and guilt more quickly if her parents' deaths had been public knowledge? It was impossible to tell. She only knew that she was still haunted by her decisions, dogged with guilt that she had caused their untimely deaths.

Only she hadn't, had she? Not really. At least, not in the manner that she'd assumed.

Because her spell should have worked. _Would_ have worked, if Dumbledore hadn't gotten to them first. If her spell hadn't been properly cast, they wouldn't have appeared to be under its influence, and they most certainly had appeared to have been affected. She shivered, remembering the vacant, malleable look in their eyes. Never, never would she perform such a spell again, she knew. At least, never on someone that she loved. To exert that sort of control over another human being, even though it was for their safety, was wrong on a moral level that she couldn't begin to put into words.

And now it turned out that she hadn't actually done anything of the sort. Her desperate plans had been for naught, and her parents had come to a bad end because of it.

"Did they know?" she asked suddenly, a new thought occurring to her. She grasped Dumbledore's arm, in supplication this time rather than reluctant acceptance of being transported to a new memory. "Did they know what I tried to do?"

"No," Dumbledore replied immediately. "I made certain that your parents would remember nothing of anyone trying to influence them."

Her sigh of relief was so strong that her entire body sagged. If they'd known… She couldn't bear the thought of her parents knowing what she had tried to do. That it would be their last memory of her.

"Sit down, Miss Granger," Lucius urged, and Hermione found herself being led to the floral patterned wing back chair that had always been hers. It was only when she sat that she realized that her legs were trembling and that she was breathing with difficulty. Lucius and Severus stood stiffly and formally, and Hermione realized that they were just as uncomfortable with her show of emotion as she was. She felt a hand on her shoulder, and turned to see Draco standing beside the chair. To her relief, he wasn't looking at her, merely standing at her side.

Providing the exact same support that she had given him only moments earlier when he'd been ill.

She considered moving out from under his hand, as he had done. Allowing him to see her weakness, to know her secrets, was more difficult than she had anticipated. She felt a flash of sympathy for him, understanding why he hadn't been able to accept her touch earlier.

And yet he offered it to her.

When the initial urge to squirm out from under his hand passed, she felt her breathing slow and her trembling subside. Perhaps the price of honesty wasn't too high to pay?

Her meandering thoughts were interrupted when her father tossed down his pencil and crossword puzzle in celebration. "Ha!" he exclaimed, checking his watch. "Forty-seven minutes!" With a sly expression on his face, he leaned toward Mrs Granger. "How's that puzzle coming for you?"

"Oh, shut it, you," she snapped, and Hermione couldn't help laughing at her mother's mostly good-natured ire. Hermione had inherited her competitive nature from her mother, and her father had enjoyed taking the mickey out of them whenever they were forced to admit their shortcomings. "Numbers are evil," she insisted. "So simple, and yet so challenging." Tossing aside her puzzle, she took a sip of tea and grimaced at the tepid temperature.

"Let me refresh that, love," Mr Granger said, and planted a soft kiss on his wife's head before gathering her tea cup and disappearing into the kitchen.

"You know, if Hermione were here to help, we'd both have been done twenty minutes ago," Mrs Granger called after him.

"Too true," he agreed, ambling back into the living room and placing the tea cup on the table. He settled back into his chair and took a bite of the biscuit he'd brought with him from the kitchen. "She's always been good with vocabulary," he said. "And last break when she showed me some of that Arithmanwhatever I couldn't make heads nor tails of it. Evil numbers, indeed."

"Now you're just humouring me," Mrs Granger chided. When he looked up at her, a guilty expression on his face, she only laughed. "I didn't say you should stop."

Brushing the last of the biscuit crumbs from his jumper, he joined Mrs Granger on the loveseat and placed his arm on the back of the couch.

"Do you think she's safe?" he asked, and Hermione's heart clenched at the lost tone of his voice. Mrs Granger's delayed reaction gave her the impression that this was not the first time they'd had this particular conversation, and her heart clenched a little more. Draco's hold on her shoulder loosened as he smoothed his hand back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, and she realized that she was strong enough to witness the conversation between her parents, even though it was guaranteed to break her heart in fresh and horrible ways.

"Oh, Matthew," she said, laughing unsteadily and grasping his hand in hers. "No one is ever safe."

They were silent for a few moments. When Mr Granger broke the silence, it was to say, "They're heading for war, you know."

Mrs Granger nodded as if this was no very great surprise to her, and Hermione gasped. They'd known? How had they known? She'd been so careful to downplay the upheaval of the Wizarding world! Yes, she'd kept her parents informed in a general sense, but she'd never even hinted that she was in any real danger. She'd dismissed her adventures with Harry as typical school age tomfoolery and skimmed over the worst of her injuries, especially the curse Dolohov had given her in the Department of Mysteries. She shivered, unconsciously running her hand over the hidden diagonal line of raised scar tissue. Draco placed his other hand on her opposite shoulder and began to rub.

"She doesn't want us to know, but it's clear from the tone of her letters that she's worried," Mrs Granger agreed.

Again, they sat in silence, sipping tea, preoccupied with their own thoughts.

"It's serious," Mr Granger said. "I don't know how I know, but…" He shrugged helplessly. "There's something about the situation that reminds me of the stories my grandfather used to tell. About the days before World War II. And Hermione is in the thick of it."

Mrs Granger closed her eyes. "What would you have her do, Matthew? Turn her back on what she knows is worth fighting for? That's not who we raised her to be," she said, but her voice cracked before she could finish, and a tear rolled down her cheek unchecked.

"I know!" Mr Granger stood, sending crossword puzzle books scattering, and paced the length of the room, coming within inches of Severus and Lucius. The two men stood frozen, as if unwilling to intrude on the man's turmoil.

"I wish that we could take her place," Mrs Granger whispered. "I'd give anything. From the moment she was born, I knew that I'd sacrifice my life if she needed me to." Smiling through her tears, she said, "It's not even a decision. But I don't see how we can help her. Matthew," she said, staring up at her husband, "What are we going to do?"

"We're going to stay right here," he said firmly, shunting aside his earlier agitation and reclaiming his seat beside her. Gathering her in his arms, he said, "We're going to be right here, where she knows she can find us. We're going to be her safe place, no matter where she is, no matter what monsters she's fighting. And if she brings the battle here, we'll protect her to the death."

And then they were crying in each other's arms, and Draco was kneeling in front of Hermione, holding her as she sobbed.

Her tears weren't for the reminder of her loss, she realized. Her parents had known. They'd known she was in danger, and they'd pledged their lives to help her. Their deaths might not have accomplished anything in the grand scheme of the war, but they hadn't died blind, not knowing what their sacrifice was for. They'd decided that she was worth it, and they'd given their lives willingly and knowingly.

She hated crying, normally, but this time, it was as if the tears themselves bore the guilt she'd been carrying for nineteen months. It flowed out of her, and it was the most purifying, purging experience of her life.

Her parents might not have understood, but they'd known.

And the tears wouldn't stop, but she didn't care. Draco's nightshirt was soaked, but she really didn't care. She felt a momentary prickle of unease at losing control so spectacularly in front of Lucius and Severus, but before the self-consciousness could take root, she realized that there were two more sets of hands on her back, and that there was no judgement in the touch, only concern.

And before she could think about that too much, the swirl of Apparition once again surrounded them. She opened her eyes for one last look at her parents and held on for all she was worth.

Author's Notes:

Thanks, as always, to The Above and Beyond Team of Miss M and Miss B.

Characters from the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling. They are used without permission and not for profit.


	11. Chapter Ten

**The Chains We Forge in Life**

**Chapter Ten**

If she had known that both of the Malfoys were snugglers, Hermione mused drowsily, she might not have been quite so terrified of them during her Hogwarts days. As it was, it was difficult to summon even a token frisson of horror for the two men currently flanking her. In fact, the bed was remarkably comfortable, and she couldn't see any reason to rouse herself sooner than was strictly necessary. If Dumbledore was in a hurry to shuttle them off to another nightmare, he could bloody well wait on _them_ for once, she thought petulantly and burrowed deeper under the covers, not even flinching when one of the Malfoys stirred and shifted a little closer to her.

"Oh, very good," a silky voice drawled sardonically. "We can now add dragon tamer to your already considerable list of accomplishments."

She'd known that the relative peace and quiet had been too good to last. Reluctantly blinking one eye open, she huffed a sigh in the general direction from which the voice had come. While it might be true that Draco (or so she surmised it was he to whom Severus was referring) had begun to display certain human attributes throughout the course of the night, she hardly thought it fair (or wise) to credit her for it.

"You can't play possum forever," Severus continued, rising from the lone chair in the corner of the room and still sounding amused. "You are not, after all, as gifted in subterfuge as the Malfoys."

It took a half second for the meaning of the words to sink in, but when they did, Hermione bolted upright, throwing off both of the men who were, apparently, wide awake and not above using her as a pillow. And blanket. And—

"Good lord, Draco! Did you drool on me?" Hermione demanded, rubbing furiously at a suspiciously damp spot on her arm.

"Don't be ridiculous," Lucius cut in, straightening his robes and attempting to shield his son while Draco surreptitiously wiped his chin to remove any evidence of drool. "Malfoys do not drool."

"Right," Hermione said, looking pointedly from her arm to Draco's mouth.

Lucius' attention, however, had shifted. "We are alone?" he inquired of Severus, giving up the pretense of straightening his robes and crossing the small room to loom over his friend.

"Quite," Severus replied, unruffled by Lucius' demeanor. "As you would know already had you not spent the last quarter hour taking advantage of Miss Granger as she slept."

Draco blinked sleepily.

Lucius widened his eyes in a rare display of surprise.

Hermione spluttered in outrage.

And Severus waited a full ten seconds before adopting his customary smirk and reassuring Hermione that he had not somehow developed an odd protective streak concerning her.

"Don't be ridiculous," Draco mumbled, still struggling to wake. "If anyone is going to—"

"Stop," Hermione commanded, holding up her hand. "Severus is having you on," she said, even though she strongly suspected that he had the right of it. Not that Lucius had taken advantage of her. For just a second, though, she'd caught an expression of utter longing on Lucius' face, and she knew that he was thinking of Narcissa, and that he wasn't nearly over her death.

And if she had to guess, she'd think that Severus was quite as observant as she, probably more so, and that his comment had been designed to distract Lucius from his pain.

"We are quite alone," Severus said, as though he had not caused the tangent which had derailed the conversation.

"Really?" Draco questioned, sounding much more alert as he untangled himself from the bedclothes and stood. His robes rippled into neat folds automatically, drawing a wistful sigh from Hermione. She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she must look a fright. She always did when she woke, and the fact that they'd been in and out of the blasted bed all night would certainly not have helped matters.

"We're free!" Draco exclaimed, reaching back to tug Hermione out of the bed. "Quick! Before Dumbledore gets back!" He bolted for the door, only to be stopped by an idle flick from Severus' wand.

"The exits are still barred," he informed them.

Hermione's shoulders drooped. She'd barely had a chance to get her hopes up, yet the disappointment was crushing.

"But he's not here," Draco said desperately "_He's not here!_ We can't be expected to wait forever, can we? We _have_ to be finished!"

Yes, Hermione agreed silently. They _had_ to be finished. If for no other reason than that she didn't think she could take any more. They'd endured Lucius idyllic-turned-dutiful childhood, Severus' nightmare of a father, Draco's near death, and the loss of her parents. What could possibly be left of their pasts for Dumbledore to drag them through?

And then her stomach dropped and she collapsed to the bed. "Oh, bugger," she moaned, burying her face in a pillow. It smelled faintly of expensive cologne, and she idly noted the fact that she was now familiar with Draco's scent. Draco Malfoy, of all people! It was hardly the strangest revelation she'd experienced since their journey had begun, but it was the one that pushed her over the edge. She began laughing uncontrollably, the pillow doing little to muffle her hysteria.

"Granger?" Draco questioned cautiously, sounding rather as if he were approaching a wild animal.

"Hadn't you better call me Hermione?" she asked, reasoning that if they were familiar enough for her to have recognized his cologne, they certainly ought to be on a first name basis

"Granger?" he repeated, sounding even more alarmed. Why, she had no idea. It had been a perfectly reasonable request, hadn't it?

"No need to fret, Mr Malfoy," Severus said drily. "I suspect that Miss Granger has merely come to the same conclusion that I reached upon waking an hour ago."

He paused, and though Hermione couldn't see him as she still had her face buried in the pillow a la ostrich, she suspected that it was not for effect. No, she was certain Severus was just as loathe as she to share their realization. Well, she wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing.

"In the classic Dickens tale," she said, making her words as distinct as possible through the feathers of the pillow, "Ebenezer Scrooge is visited by the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future."

When she reluctantly raised her head from the pillow it was to find both Malfoys staring at her with identical expressions of horror. She hadn't thought that it was possible for Draco to turn paler than he already was, but he managed it handily, the colour draining from his face in slow increments. After Lucius' earlier displays of temper, she half-expected to hear a destructive curse aimed at the door, but instead, he merely ran his hand over his face.

"Bugger, indeed," he said, echoing Hermione and sounding older than his years. He pressed his lips together in a thin line, and Hermione suspected that he was steeling himself against the knowledge that their journey was only one-third complete.

"No," Draco said. His lips were also pressed in a thin line, but they spoke of determination rather than resignation. "No," he repeated. "We came here tonight to celebrate the re-opening of Hogwarts. _Not_ to reprise our roles of pawns. We're supposed to be _dancing_, not—" He stopped abruptly when a knock on the door caused all of them to look up sharply. Lucius and Severus sprang away, striding to the door so quickly that it almost made her dizzy.

"I is Berry," a high voice squeaked. "And I is being sent to open the door for you."

The heavy wooden door swung open, revealing a worried house-elf. He wrung his hands and looked at the floor. "Please don't be beings upsets with Berry."

"Of course we're not upset with you," Hermione said, giving the wizards in the room a pointed look. Berry's ears drooped with relief, but folded back in terror when Lucius addressed it sternly.

"Did you have anything to do with this, elf?" he demanded. His tone wasn't unkind but demanded an immediate answer.

"No! Oh, no, Mr Blondie Malfoy. We elves is only knowing that the door won't open except when it is ready to, and it wasn't ready to until now." His eyes were huge, pleading with Lucius to believe him. "Well," he corrected himself, cringing, "it might have been being ready to opens a _little_ earlier, but the Cat Lady was needing us!" Berry frowned. "There was former students drinking too much of the bubbly juice and doing nasty, nasty things with their tongueses. And their hands!" He shuddered, and Hermione couldn't help grimacing along with him. Ron and Lavender had been hard enough to watch hours earlier. She could only imagine what some of the less inhibited party-goers had gotten up to in the meantime.

"Very well," Lucius said, exchanging an amused glance with Severus at the results of his doctored punch. "I suppose that we are—"

"Wait just a moment," Hermione interrupted, staring at the diminutive house elf. "Are you telling me that the party is still going on? It _can't_ be! We've been gone for _hours_!"

Berry took a nervous step backward and twisted his hands. "Berry doesn't be knowing _exactly_ how long—"

"Merlin's pants! Does no one besides myself remember how to cast a _Tempus_ charm?" Severus flicked his wand and the occupants of the room stared at the glowing numbers.

"Midnight?" Hermione questioned. "_Midnight?_ I would have thought it was midnight when this charade _began_! Although…" She frowned, trying to remember the particulars from the book. Didn't a ghost visit Scrooge on the hour, every hour? If so, they were not nearly finished.

"Berry is not knowings about times," the house elf squeaked. "Berry is only knowing that the door is opening and that it is being time for the wizards and witch to go." He looked at them, his pleading expression making Hermione wonder if he feared punishment if they didn't leave the room at their appointed time.

"Are we really… do you think…" Hermione stared at the open door, wondering if this weren't some sort of cruel trick. They had only travelled to the past. Could it be possible that they were being spared the torture of Dumbledore accompanying them into the present and the future? Or were they, perhaps, in the present right now? What if they had merely been transported to their first destination on the "present" leg of their journey? But the elf had spoken to them. Surely that meant that they were in the _actual_ present, and not the _magical_ present?

"Miss Granger, you will no doubt have ample opportunity to analyze this entire experience at a later date. I suggest, however, that we take advantage of our offered freedom as expeditiously as possible," Lucius advised, and Hermione immediately saw the wisdom. If they were truly on the next leg of their journey, the present, then the worst that would happen was that they would be prevented from leaving the room. And if they were truly free…

She took an involuntary step toward the door. Severus, Lucius, and Draco followed in her wake, and for a moment she wondered just how ridiculous they must look—a rumpled, exhausted caravan. She passed through the door, feeling a tingle of magic as she stepped into the corridor. To her relief, the nightgown she'd worn for the duration of their adventure was once again the Medieval gown she'd donned for the ball. Looking back over her shoulder, she was just in time to see the room disappear behind Draco, the wall an unbroken canvass of rough-hewn stone.

"The Room of Requirement," she groaned. "Of course!"

Draco looked behind him in surprise. "It makes sense," he agreed thoughtfully. "I never would have guessed, though…" He shook his head. "Silly, really. You'd think either you or I would have put it together."

"And just why would you suppose that?" Lucius inquired, one eyebrow quirked.

"Oh, it's just that Draco and I both spent a considerable amount of time here sixth year," Hermione rushed to explain. "Not together," she amended hastily.

"Of course not," Draco said. "You were busy with Dumbledore's Army, and I was occupied with…" He paused. "Other endeavours."

"I'm well aware of that," Lucius retorted, rolling his eyes at his son. "I merely wondered why you would assume that Severus and I are not just as familiar with the room as you."

Draco opened his mouth to reply, and then snapped it closed as if realizing that no response would help him.

"Quite," Severus said, seemingly applauding Draco's choice to remain mum. "After all, you couldn't have thought that Potter was the first to discover the room, could you?"

"Of _course_ not," Hermione snapped, and then collected herself. She could see what Severus was doing, and she wasn't going to allow it. "Nice try," she told him, pinning him with a glare. "But you're not going to scare me away with your surly attitude." Poking his chest with her index finger, she moved into his personal space. "You can't get rid of me that easily." He narrowed his eyes at her, but she merely smirked in return, confident that she would carry her point.

"If you're quite finished," Lucius interrupted, "would it not be prudent to continue to make good our escape?" He glanced meaningfully down the hall, as if he expected Dumbledore's spectre to appear and attempt to herd them back into the Room of Requirement.

"That's odd," Hermione said, staring down the dark and deserted corridor. "I don't remember entering the Room of Requirement. Do any of you?"

Lucius drummed his fingers on his leg as he contemplated the question. "No. I assumed that I had over-indulged at the festivities and…" He shrugged, as if this were not an uncommon occurrence.

"I do not recall the particulars, either," Severus said, his tone contemplative.

"All I remember is waking up in bed with Hermione," Draco said.

"There were _four_ of us in the bed," Hermione informed him tartly, her face colouring at Draco's accurate, if potentially flirtatious, answer.

"Well, that's certainly not how _I'm_ going to tell the story," Draco decided. "I like it much better my way."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione gave him a push down the corridor. "I'm sure you do. That doesn't make it true."

As they descended the many moving staircases, the sounds of the festivities in the Great Hall rose to meet them, music and happy voices mingling to form an intoxicating brew. Hermione stepped in time to the music, humming along with the familiar wizarding tune.

"I see that Draco was not the only one who was looking forward to dancing," Lucius said, tapping his cane on the marble floor at the top of the staircase that led to the Great Hall.

"Well, it _is_ a ball," Hermione pointed out. "And as far as I can remember, I really only danced with Severus."

"Which is reason enough to seek out additional partners," Lucius said, smirking at his friend. "I _quite_ understand."

"I didn't mean it like that!" Hermione said, giving him an exasperated nudge. "Severus is a magnificent dancer, and a true gentleman."

Severus smirked and stood just a little taller.

"Oh, please," Draco snorted. "Rescuing you from Handsy McHands hardly makes him a knight in shining armour."

"Says you!" Hermione retorted, sniffing and taking Severus' arm. "And it makes him a hero because he prevented me hexing Cormac and starting an incident. _Not_ because I needed rescuing."

"Now _that_ I believe," Draco said, falling into step beside her. Rubbing his nose surreptitiously, he whispered, "I can still feel my nose on rainy days, you know." He paused. "And there are a lot of rainy days in this part of the world."

"You had it coming," Hermione replied briskly, but she couldn't help glancing at his nose as they descended the many steps of the main staircase. There was just the slightest of bumps in the otherwise perfect slope of his nose, and she surprised herself by feeling a small twinge of guilt. Even more surprising was the desire to study the rest of his features. He was remarkable, Hermione realized in a flash so clear she wondered how she'd missed it before. He wasn't perfect. His features were angular rather than chiseled, his complexion too light to speak of robust health. And yet his imperfections made him all the more compelling. Once she began studying him, she found she couldn't stop. His lips were thin. Too thin, perhaps. And yet they were the perfect shade of pink. And his eyes. Not a blazing blue like Charlie Weasley's, or a flinty grey like Lucius', but a mixture of blue and grey, reminding her of stormy seas. And some might consider his hairline too high, but—

"Don't be misled, Miss Granger," Lucius advised, interrupting her perusal of Draco's features and causing her to blink in surprise. "If Draco has to resort to pity in order to secure you as a dance partner, he deserves no consideration."

"Pity!" Draco spluttered. "I'll have you know—"

"That I've already danced with Severus once this evening and in the interest of keeping his friendship, I have no desire to goad him into a second dance. I am therefore quite open to your invitation, should you care to make it," Hermione informed him, her hold on Severus' arm still resolute.

Lucius' lips twitched. "If you don't marry this one, Draco, I will," he warned.

Hermione grinned, thinking that Severus' satisfied smirk and Draco's unhinged jaw were more than worth the potential embarrassment of admitting that she wanted to dance with the younger Malfoy. Perhaps _wanted_ was a strong word. _Felt compelled to_ was more like, she realized, because she wasn't quite ready to let go of the evening. If hard pressed, she would even say that the idea of prolonging the evening by dancing with her former enemy _felt right_.

And wasn't that just something she'd never seen coming?

Before she could dwell on the unexpected realization, they were swept into the Great Hall, and she found herself on the periphery of the dancing, mingling crowd. The volume had grown steadily as they'd descended the stairs, but it was still somewhat of a shock to be thrust into the overly loud room. Hermione felt Severus' arm beneath her hand tense, and she knew that he was fighting the instinct to turn on his heel and leave.

"You can't leave now," she whispered, just loudly enough for the Malfoys to also hear. "Don't you want to see the effects of your punch?"

He paused. "There is that," he admitted, scanning the occupants of the room with cool disinterest rather than outright disdain. It was, Hermione decided, the best she could hope for.

"And you practically begged me to dance with you," Draco said, drawing her away from Severus so smoothly that she couldn't object before they were firmly planted in the middle of the dance floor and swaying to a crooned Christmas carol.

"I hardly _begged_ you," Hermione pointed out, mustering up token outrage even though she was finding herself in far too good a mood to be particularly offended.

Shrugging, Draco did a complicated little move that left Hermione out of breath and swept them out of the centre of the dance floor. "A mere technicality," he decided. "And one that works in my favour."

Hermione looked up at him and found his attention firmly fixed on her. A queer sensation that she could not entirely attribute to spiked punch or smooth dance moves settled in her stomach, and for the first time, she experienced the heady sensation of Draco Malfoy's undivided attention. His undivided _appreciative_ attention. Because there was no mistaking his evident admiration. Oh, she wouldn't have been able to identify it a month ago, or even a day ago, but somehow, the lighter shade of blue with faint gray specks… paired with the faintest of smirks…

"Granger?" he questioned, sounding amused, and Hermione belatedly realized that she'd been staring.

But Draco, too, seemed to come to a realization. "Hermione?" he repeated, and this time his voice held less teasing and more meaning.

And then her heart was suddenly, inexplicably, full to bursting. Full from witnessing the lives of three men she had thought she'd known. Full from seeing her parents and learning to understand them better. And especially full from the unexpected comfort she'd received from all three of her companions.

Her face grew warm as she recalled Draco holding her in Moaning Myrtle's lavatory. It wasn't warm with embarrassment, however. No, it was something… _more_. Something that told her it mightn't be so bad to be held by him again. And not necessarily only for comfort.

"Hermione," Draco repeated, only this time it wasn't a question so much as an agreement. An acknowledgement that his thoughts were following a path similar to her own.

And that was enough, she decided, shucking her inhibitions by moving farther into his embrace and placing her head against his chest. It would be foolhardy to rush into declarations on the heels of an emotionally and magically charged night. But that didn't mean that she couldn't give him something to think about…

Draco's startled intake of breath and wide-eyed expression was even more satisfying than she had hoped.

"What?" she questioned impishly, giving his backside another good squeeze and trying to hide her admiration for the perfectly formed globe of flesh under her fingers. "You _did_ say that I was welcome to grope your arse at my convenience, didn't you?" she asked, reminding him of the promise he'd made her earlier that night after she'd woken to find his hand on her bum.

His delighted laughter was a pleasant surprise, and Hermione felt her already full heart burst with happiness as she slid her hands to a more respectable position on his chest. She was in over her head, she realized, and she wouldn't change a thing.

"Granger," he said, and though he was still laughing, she could tell that he meant every word, "it's a standing invitation."

It shouldn't be possible, she thought, once again placing her cheek against his chest, to be so inordinately happy after such a tumultuous night. And yet, against all odds, she most certainly was.

"Good gracious," a smooth voice interrupted. "I do hope you've managed to ask her?"

"Ask me what?" Hermione questioned, reluctantly lifting her head to address Lucius. Draco however, nudged her back into their former intimate position.

"A marriage proposal, Father? And at Hogwarts?" Draco inquired. "Really?"

"Hmm. Yes. I rather see your point. Still, I imagine a poor choice of venue would be no detriment to a properly crafted proposal. But, no. Though I commend you for your foresight, I was actually inquiring whether you had invited Miss Granger to spend her Christmas vacation with us." Addressing Hermione directly, he said, "I understand that you've accepted an invitation to spend Christmas Day at the Burrow, but I cannot imagine that the accommodations are so much to your liking that you would decline an earnest invitation to spend at least a portion of the Christmas holidays at the Manor."

Hermione blinked at the smoothly delivered, though convoluted, invitation.

"That is," he continued, looking as if the words pained him, "as long as you are not uncomfortable returning to Malfoy Manor."

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed. "No! No, that's not it." Though it would have been, had the invitation been issued even one day earlier. "You surprised me, is all." Thinking of the bursting at the seams Burrow, and Ginny's irrational jealousy, and Charlie's relentless flirting, and Lavender's promise of an extended visit to her boyfriend beginning on Boxing Day…

"I'd be delighted," she said, and found that it was true. The Weasleys had been her surrogate family since she'd discovered the Wizarding world, and she'd always be grateful for the way they'd taken her in last Christmas, the first Christmas after the Battle of Hogwarts, but she suddenly knew that she did not want to spend another Christmas with them. Last year they had all been hurting, the Weasley family barely functioning as they went through the motions of the festivities their first Christmas without Fred. Her own grief had been easily overlooked. And she'd been grateful for that. But this year… This year she thought that she would much prefer being in the company of people who understood her. In a place where she wouldn't be lost in the shuffle.

"Thank Merlin," Severus said, making his presence beside Lucius known and giving Hermione a start. "Another Christmas alone with these two," he said, raising an eyebrow at Lucius and Draco in turn, "and I'd be forced to give serious consideration to Minerva's standing invitation to her cottage. Ten months of the year dedicated to Scotland's wretched weather is quite enough, thank you very much."

"Did you see him arrive?" Hermione whispered to Draco, moving just far enough away to look up at him.

"No," Draco said, pulling her back to his chest. "Never. The man is pure smoke," he said, sounding both irritated and grudgingly impressed.

"There are some advantages," Severus said, exchanging an amused look with Hermione, "to having hair that is not imbued with sufficient brilliance to serve as a homing beacon."

Hermione stifled a laugh at Draco's resulting grumble. "You really don't mind if I visit?" she inquired, realizing that the invitation had been extended by his father, not him. She didn't _think_ that he would mind, but it would be an awful holiday if he did.

"Don't be silly, Granger. Of course I don't mind. But how are you going to explain your change of plans to Potter?"

Hermione stopped short. "Oh, bother," she sighed, and scanned the room for her closest friend. He was going to kill her, she reflected ruefully. Not because he would object to her spending time with the Malfoys. He'd managed to forge a mostly civil acquaintance with Draco since the end of the war. No, Harry would kill her for leaving him to the tender mercies of the Weasleys, namely jealous Ginny and lovesick Ron.

Well.

It wasn't _her_ fault she'd been singled out for an evening of emotionally draining otherworldly experiences and managed to make new friends along the way.

Still, it wouldn't go amiss to have a few words with him in private before packing her bags for Wiltshire…

"Do you see Harry anywhere?" she asked Draco, craning her neck to get a better view of the dancing couples.

Draco's sigh was barely noticeable, but it made Hermione smile anyway. What had once been a relationship built on antagonism was now mostly an excuse to pretend to be annoyed by the other, and she found it tremendously amusing.

"No," Draco finally said, sounding surprised. "I don't see him. Maybe he cut out early?"

Hermione snorted. "Not likely. He's no good at saying 'no' to all the people who want to talk to him."

She continued to scan the crowd, frowning when she failed to find him. "That's odd," she said mostly to herself. "I know that he wouldn't leave without talking to me."

"Much as I shudder to even think it," Severus said, "it is entirely possible that he was presented with an offer to leave which did _not_ involve copious amounts of 'talking'."

Hermione blanched at the thought. "I'm going to pretend for both our sakes that you didn't say that," she decided.

Severus inclined his head in silent agreement.

"Mr Potter?" Lucius questioned. "I believe I saw him shortly after our return." He frowned. "He appeared pale and somewhat flustered. He kept glancing over his shoulder, almost as if—"

"As if he'd seen a ghost?" Hermione questioned. "No," she decided, remembering the face that she'd seen in the lavatory, and the person Severus had seen while they'd been dancing earlier in the evening. "It couldn't be," she said. But what if Harry really _had_ seen—

"An undigested bit of potato," Draco speculated. When the rest of the party turned to him in astonishment, he clarified. "I thought the potatoes at supper were undercooked. I wouldn't be at all surprised if Potter were feeling the effects. In fact," he added, "if we all hadn't experienced it together, I would be inclined to assume that the whole bloody night was merely a bad dream, brought on by substandard food."

"Language, Draco," Lucius chided. "What?" he said when Draco huffed in his direction. "I didn't say it wasn't an apt description. I only ask that you refrain from using coarse language in polite society."

"Yes, Father," Draco dutifully agreed, but asserted his independence by nodding to both Severus and Lucius and drawing Hermione back on to the dance floor.

"Now, where were we?" he asked, his mouth close to her ear. Goose flesh broke out along her skin, even though the majority of it was covered by her Medieval gown. All thought of Harry, the impending Christmas hols, and her fantastic journey through the past flew out of her mind.

"I know exactly where we were," she said, her smile brilliant. "And it's exactly where I want to be."

Draco's answering smile might not have been as brilliant as Hermione's, but she rather thought it was just as earnest. "Funny thing, that," he said, holding her even closer. "I feel exactly the same way."

Before Hermione could return to her favoured position of her cheek against his chest, she was distracted by the faint sound of clanking chains. Her heart leapt into her throat and she scanned the room wildly, hoping against hope that Dumbledore had not returned to spirit them away again. The chains clanked again, and this time, out of the corner of her eye, Hermione caught the ethereal swirl of a grey cloak. The warm candle light of the room glinted, reflecting off a link in the chain. A link which appeared to depict… a couple dancing? Kissing? She blinked, and the cloak and chain were gone.

"Did you see that?" Draco whispered, looking as unsettled as she felt.

"Yes," she said, and placed her arms around his neck. Throwing caution to the wind, she tugged until their lips met. "That last link of the chain might not be so bad," she whispered, and this time, Draco's smile was as brilliant as hers.

Author's Notes:

Thanks, as always, to The Above and Beyond Team of Miss M and Miss B.

Characters from the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling. They are used without permission and not for profit.


	12. Epilogue

**The Chains We Forge in Life**

**Epilogue**

"Well?" a voice questioned, and, with a jolt, he realized that he was back in the Afterlife. The belt at his waist hung more heavily than it had on Earth, and it took him a moment to process the impatient demand.

He cleared his throat and picked up a coil of chain, hoping to alleviate some of its weight. "It was an eye-opening experience, to be sure," he said, not entirely certain what answer they were looking for. It was always safer to err on the side of giving too little information, rather than too much, he had found.

There was a heavy silence, and he felt that he was being judged, evaluated. As the silence stretched, it occurred to him that, despite his best efforts, he might still be found wanting. It would help, he thought bitterly, if he knew exactly what he was supposed to have learned after mucking around in the lives of four of his past acquaintances. That Lucius Malfoy wasn't an arrogant bastard? The ship had sailed on that man years ago, no matter how craftily he hid his true nature under a façade of acceptance of the new regime in the wizarding world. It was certainly interesting to see some of the more private aspects of Lucius' and Draco's lives, but it hardly excused their actions. The image he now had of the Malfoy men's stoic acceptance of their lot in life, their unflinching practice of sacrifice to keep safe the family, gave him pause. Had he been wrong to keep Abraxas at arms' length so many years ago? Would it have changed anything if he had been more forthcoming with his plans?

And Severus. He shook his head, a queer, unfamiliar feeling settling in his gut as he remembered the sallow child hurling curses with intent that most adults couldn't come close to mustering. Had he been wrong to provide the boy with the means to defend himself? Had he been wrong to look the other way when the Marauders had targeted him?

And Miss Granger. At the thought of the young witch, he straightened his back. No, he had done the best he could with her. Her Muggle heritage, after all, had been a wild card that he'd had to play carefully.

No, he had done the best he could, hadn't he? He'd made the best decisions with the information he'd had.

Hadn't he?

The uncomfortable feeling in his stomach grew stronger, but he pressed his lips together and ignored it, just as he had done so many times when he'd been alive. Guilt, after all, was not a helpful emotion.

"Improvement," a voice said, its tone thoughtful.

"Yes, but not enough," another decided.

He smiled genially, knowing that the frown he felt would get him nowhere.

"Another chance?" a third voice asked doubtfully. "It seems a waste of resources, and yet…"

"And yet," the fourth voice agreed with a sigh. "I agree. All those in favour?"

A chorus of "ayes" assailed him, and as before, the grey mist swirled and enveloped him. Again? he thought, when the familiar walls of Hogwarts become visible. The party was still underway, only this time, the only person who reacted to his presence was—

"Harry?"

Author's Notes:

Thanks, as always, to The Above and Beyond Team of Miss M and Miss B.

And thank you, readers, for following along this silly tale! A Christmas Carol has been an important part of my Christmas celebrations for many years, and I couldn't resist letting the Harry Potter characters play in that world. Thank you for reading, and may you find yourself blessed this coming year.

Characters from the Harry Potter series are the property of J.K. Rowling. They are used without permission and not for profit.


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